


LOLITA.

by delibell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Detective, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, Love Triangles, Love?, Murder, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Sherlock Holmes BBC - Freeform, hardship, jim is also precious, john is a dad, possibly smut????, reader is precious, reader x everyone basically tbh, relationship, sherlocks a twat, wow what doesnt happen here, yeah smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[PREVIOUSLY CALLED 'IS IT MAGIC....OR?']</p><p>            Once upon a murder you life was turned a rough 180 degrees as the ever keen detective Sherlock Holmes and his trusty assistant Doctor John Watson waltzed into your life. But it wasn't all fun games and dead bodies, apparently. Along with Sherlock came a man you couldn't possibly imagine existing. One that liked to play games and sweetly call you Lolita. A spider is what your beloved detective called him and you were shocked at how correct he was.</p><p>      A war has started. And you're in the very center of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to make a murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Sherlock story!!---inhales--- So exciting! I'm such a big fan of the franchise and I hope I will leave no one disappointed!!!  
> AND YES, I do know that I have soooo many WIP's but I can't. i can't help it. I love Sherlock. i can't. He is too precious.   
>  Anway! I hope you enjoy!

You were bored. It might not seem to your co-workers – since you were actively and almost _aggressively_ scrolling on your phone – but you were bored. You briefly glanced up at the girl that was preparing a cappuccino for the bloke that requested room service exactly ten minutes ago. You weren't in a rush, as it seemed. 

The girl placed the cup on your trolley and looked at you expectantly. You didn’t move. 

"(Lastname)." She called with a sigh. You turned your head to her. 

"What?" 

"Do you want to get fired?" You stayed quiet, pretending to think over your answer. 

"Well, yes." You finally said, "Working in room service isn't exactly the job I had in mind when I majored in psychology." You told, hopping off the comfy chair. The girl, her name you didn’t bother learning, smiled. 

"Law here." She told, adding some chocolate sweets on the saucer, "Say, what kind of man can't leave his room to get coffee?" 

"He's in a five star hotel," You mumbled, pushing on the trolley, "He can do what ever the bloody hell he wants." 

 

_As you reached the fourth floor you knocked on the door, calling out '_ Room service! _' in a chipper voice, your lips forming a smile that died as soon as you finished knocking. No sound was heard from the other side. You sighed. Three knocks. Five._

_"_ Sir, I brought your coffee!" _You called. Your eyes found the polished handle, and almost by accident you weighed it down. You blinked, surprised – unlocked? Why--...Your thoughts were wiped clean as you pushed the door open. It creaked. "Sir?" You called again, hesitantly stepping into his clean room, curtsy of you, the trolley long forgotten in the hallway. As you reached a turn, you gasped, covering your mouth with your palms as your eyes gazed at the dead body on the drenched sheets._

_Your eyes swept the room – what could've done this?! Quickly, you inspected the body: man, late forties, a smoker (judging by the awful smell of nicotine and the open window), pricey watch cracked at exactly 8:39pm, which is when the bullet hit it and bounced off into his head. Yes, **perfect,** but where was the weapon? You searched the sheets. Not here. So not a suicide. A murder? You squealed.  _

_Time to inspect his wallet-_

 

The ding of the elevator made you snap out your daydream as you owlishly blinked at the red number reading _'4'._ The metal doors parted, a gush of wind brushing your neck as you stepped out, pushing the trolley in front of you. The gum in your mouth lost it's taste. Without missing a beat, you took it out your mouth and threw it in a vase with blooming flowers as you passed it. You saw lights shimmering behind the closed doors, a first low sound of music greeting your ears. As you approached the last room on this floor, it got louder. 

You knocked on the white oak, hearing footsteps on the other side, "Room service!" You called out, a plastic smile tugging on your lips automatically, "Sir, I brought you your coffee!" You said, happily. There was no answer. The music got louder. You quickly knocked again, "Sir, you can't listen to music so loud! The other guests might— _oh bloody hell_ that prick can't hear me." You took a displeased step back from the door – they were, for the most part, sound proof, so if that crappy classical melody can be heard at the end of the hallway it must be on maximum. You sighed, irritated, frantically knocking on his door.  

A few heads poked out, displeased, asking you to turn down the volume immediately. You gave an apologetic smile, swearing to fix the situation immediately. Your quick fingers shot to your pocket and grabbed the key-card. With a sigh and a plead to God that he wasn't doing anything compromising in there, you swiped the key-card and the door clicked open. The melody was almost deafening. Pushing the white oak open, your eyes were met with flickering lights and a narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. Forgetting the trolley in the hallway, you stepped through the threshold " _Sir!_ Please turn down the volume! You're disturbing other guests!" You told. The door to the bathroom was opened but the lights were turned off. A shiver crept up your spine. _Something is not...right_...Making your way through the short hallway you gazed at the bedroom, your blood running cold as you abruptly stopped. 

The white fur carpet was splattered in red. Slowly, your eyes traveled up the dripping liquid only to find a bashed head laying in the sheets. 

All the lights in the world were sniffed out with a loud scream coming from your throat. 

 

**_September 24th, 9:30 am._ **

 

 You threw your favorite book away, your head turning to the sound of a doorbell ringing. Blinking a few times you stood up, lazily stumbling to the door of your flat. Whoever it was was in a hurry – instead of annoyingly pressing the bell the stranger now started aggressively knocking. 

"Coming! _Coming_!" You announced, turning the lock and opening the door in a heartbeat. A soft frown pulled on your face as you stared at two unfamiliar men – one wearing a stupidly funny hat and looking passively irritated at your slowness. 

"Hi." The other, shorter man with a  friendlier face said, _"Hi_ , sorry to interrupt, I hope you weren't doing anything important." 

"Just reading." You replied, your quick (colour) irises going from him to the other and back. "I'm sorry, but who are you?" 

"Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes," The one with the funny hat suddenly said, "And my partner John Watson-" 

"- ** _Doctor_** John Watson!" 

"-We're here to talk about the hotel murder you stumbled upon a few days ago." He finished without missing a beat. 

"What Sherlock is _trying_ to say," Doctor John Watson interrupted, "Is may you please let us in?" You blinked. 

" _Uhm_ , sure. I'll boil the cattle." You stepped aside to let the two, seemingly harmless, men in as you closed the door and moved to the kitchenette. They sat down on the sofa, still in your sight. "Tea? Coffee? " 

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." John replied, kindly. Sherlock didn’t say a word, just looked around. 

"Oh, uhm, and I'm-" 

"(Name) (Lastname), we know." Sherlock cut you off. You narrowed your eyes at him. 

" _I_... already spoke with the police." You said slowly, coming to sit on a futon in front of them, "Are there any news?" 

"No, but there will be if you co-operate." Sherlock said, his gaze now back to stare at you, "Now, tell us everything that happened." 

"Didn't you read the police report--" 

" _Yes yes._ Now start talking." 

You glanced at John. He gave an apologetic smile. 

"Sure." You finally said, clearing your throat. "I was bored at work-" 

"-Boring. Skip to the important part." 

"- _I was bored at work_ so I was running late." You kept your own, frowning softly at Sherlock, "I was asked to bring coffee ten minutes ago but _Candy Crush_ is just **too** addicting. When I finally did get everything I went to the 4th floor. I didn't notice the music at first, but it gradually grew louder as I got to the last room." 

"Music? What kind of music?" Sherlock asked. You shrugged. 

"Something classical. Popular too. I have heard it before, but I can't name it. It should be in police re-" 

"Continue." 

You sighed. _This man_...!

"I asked to turn down the music since it was disturbing other guests, but I didn’t get a reply. I _did_ hear footsteps behind the door, though. Then the volume was turned to max, I mean, the room is somewhat sound proof and you could hear this by the elevator. Anyway, I kept knocking and whatnot until finally I unlocked the door with my key-card." 

"What did the room smell like?" 

"I'm not sure I noticed. No smell of blood, though." Sherlock seemed content with your answer, "When I _did_ see the blood... I kinda froze, and then when I looked up I saw a bashed in head. Nothing else. I fainted." 

"You witnessed a dead body only a couple of days prior, yet you seem fine. It takes most people years to get over it." 

"Oh I did go to therapy so I'm fine. Was really shaken up when I woke up, though." You cracked a smile, "Thankfully I only saw a snipped. So there isn't as much trauma to deal with, I guess. Thank you for the concern, though." 

"It wasn’t concern." Sherlock told sternly, standing up. He paced around the room, "Anything else you remember?" 

"No. Sorry." You said. You heard the cattle tick, "Teas ready!" You announced, hurrying to the kitchenette. After a couple of minutes you came back with two cups, one for you and one for John. He thanked you, "Sorry. Only have green tea." 

"That's quite alright." He replied with a smile. Suddenly, Sherlock turned to you. 

"Who did it?" 

"Did what?" 

"Committed the murder. Who do you think did it?" 

"No clue. I didn’t know the man personally, only his name. He seemed kind albeit a bit paranoid. Hardly left his room. Could be anyone." Sherlock sighed, irritated. 

"How simple minded. I expected more from a psychology student." 

"Hey, how did you know that?"  

"Police reports." 

"...Right." You blew on your tea, "What else did you read?" 

"Twenty three years old, recently finished college, can't find a sufficient job, too unstable," Sherlock's voice grew in pace, "You like to watch TV every evening judging by the placing of the remote and the unhealthy amount of dust everywhere but the TV, which means you either moved in recently or are terribly lazy. Judging by the events in the hotel _and_ by how you opened the door for us I say it's both. You keep the door to your bedroom shut from strangers, yet you talk with us freely and almost as if we are long time friends so you must be either a very private person or have something in your bedroom that you don’t want us to see." As if on cue, he turned a rough 180 degrees and bee-lined to the door at the end of the hallway. Your first shocked expression morphed into panic as you jumped off the futon, John yelling a tired ' _Sherlock_!' As you scrambled to the man, blocking the wooden door from him with your body, "As I suspected – _private_. Also jumping to conclusions easily. You're blushing – so there is something you don't want us to see. A messy bed? **No** , too easy. Everyone has a messy bed. Something with...family? No, no family photos around, you're not the affectionate type as it seems. What then?...Something with psychology? Are you studying something? Or are there embarrassing posters on your walls? No, you don't seem like the type to get embarrassed over such silly things.After all, you keep the door to your bathroom open. It must be something special. Something dear to you." He conducted. "What is it?" 

" _Sherlock, **please** leave the girl alone_!"  

You stared at him, speechless, your mouth agape, (colour) eyes wide, but not in shock. His irises roamed around your body as if afraid to stay in one place at the time. You noted a soft crease between his brows – was he trying to read you? Was he afraid he missed something? You shut your mouth, locking his gaze in place as a small tug on the corner of your lip made a half-hearted smile. 

"Amazing..." You murmured, "How did you know?" 

"You asked what I read. And I told you." 

"Those weren't in the police files." 

"They didn’t have to be." 

You inhaled, pushing your form from the door. You didn’t have much room to move though – his body blocked your only exit. His eyes followed you as you moved past him, brushing his shoulder. You reached to your side, grabbing the handle of your bathrooms door and pulling it close. 

"It was opened." You said, "In Peter's room. The lights were off." Sherlock frowned. 

"It was closed when we got there." He told. 

"I didn’t close it." You said. 

"Why didn’t you say this sooner?" 

"Because I forgot." You finished dryly, moving back to the living room, "Now please, _Detective_ , away from my bedrooms door."  

"Sorry about him, he does that all the time. It's fine if you want to punch him in the face. I always do--" The smile that started to play on your lips soon died down as you heard the door you told not to touch creek open loudly. John fumed, " _Sherlock!_ " He shouted, hurriedly putting his tea on a small coffee table and jumping off the couch. You spun on your heel, finding Sherlock poking his head in the room. He shut the door almost in an instant, stalking back to you, "Sherlock, you can't just--" 

"There's nothing there." He told, " _Nothing._.." He added, more to himself than you and John. The two of you shared a look. Sherlock started pacing around the living room, staying completely silent with a focused face. A thought occurred to you that he has forgotten that you were still here. "He has." John confirmed your suspicions. "I'm terribly sorry for all of this, he just can't help himself. He's like a child sometimes." 

"I...noticed." You mumbled, awkwardly sitting back on your futon. "Uhm, if-if that's all..." 

"Yes, yes it is!" John said, "Thank you for the tea. Again, sorry for the..." He motioned to Sherlock, "Well, whatever the hell that was." You nodded. John pulled on his friends shoulder, leading him out the door. With one final wave, the two were out. The door clicked shut. You released a ragged breath. 

_What...What the hell just happened?_


	2. Just like in those telenovelas...

**_Same day, 3:40pm._**  

Work was cancelled – no surprise there. Though, only for a couple of days. A hotel that big cannot stay shut for long. You, though, were given a weeks worth of vacation, because if you were to get back to work the papers would be talking. Speaking of which, you never were one to read tabloids or newsletters, but something ushed you out the door as soon as Sherlock Holmes left. What you found was a paper with his face plastered all over it. He wore that stupid hat too. 

He was a local celebrity, as it seemed. Strange, you had never heard of him or _Doctor_ John Watson and his ever more popular blog. After reading the article you then read a few of John's stories. To be fair, they were...Not bad. You wouldn't go as far as to say you liked them. Only if John asked, which you doubted since there was little to no chance the two would show up on your doorstep again. 

You sighed, chewing on your chocolate bar and staring into the depths of the Telly. Some silly TV show was on, but you didn’t care. 

You wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again. Sure, he was rude and...Well, rude. But so calculating and precise...His mind was absolutely fascinating to you. And as a woman with a psychology degree you could barely sit on your futon without running out your flat and tracking Holmes down. You wanted to examine him – _wait that sounded wrong_ – get to know him better. He wasn’t a test subject... 

Well, okay, _maybe_ he was. _A little._  

You had already spent most of your spare time writing down key things about him. Oh, if only you were as good at deducing as he was, you were sure one notebook wouldn’t be enough. 

A message beep caught your attention, and averting your gaze from the telly you pulled your phone from your sweatpants and unlocked it. 

> _221B Baker_ _st._ _Come quick._    
>  _If you're busy still come._    
>  _\- S.H_  
> 
> _[Message from: xxx_ _xxx_ _xxx]_  

_S.H?_ You blinked, staring at your phone as if seeing such a contraption for the first time. You re-read the message one more time. _S.H?...Sherlock Holmes?_ Why would he text you? And most important, why would you go? Wait no, how did he get your number was the real question...! 

> _How did you get my number?_  
> 
> _[Message sent to: Snoopy Detective]_  

The reply was almost instant. 

> _T_ _ell you when you get here now hurry._  
> 
> _[Message from: Snoopy Detective]_  

You hopped off the futon and hurried to your bedroom to get dressed. Going out with sweatpants...You weren't ready for that quite yet. When you finished making yourself presentable you grabbed your purse and keys and bolted out the door, nearly forgetting to lock it.  

You found Baker Street easily – you used to live here when you were younger, and thankfully you still knew the way. Albeit taking almost an hour of running, train changing and two short bus rides you finally stood by the door, catching your breath as a bead of sweat ran down your forehead. 

Well, he did say to hurry. 

You knocked on the door. After a moment you heard shuffling, a pleasant elderly voice reassuring you that she is on her way. You then saw a sweet woman smile at you, curiously tilting her head to the side as she greeted you. You gave a smile back. 

"Yeah, hiya, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes..." You said, uneasily, "Is he around?" 

"Oh yes, he's just upstairs." She confirmed. "Are you a client?" You shook your head. Her face seemed to light up. Quickly, she stepped aside, and you nodded thanks, "Oh I knew he'd find himself a girlfriend one day..." You heard her murmur behind you. You nearly tumbled over your feet. She ushed you up the stairs, "I'm his landlady, you see." 

"(Name), pleasure..." You introduced. 

"Well, I'll leave you to it." She said, leaving you by the door. With a sigh, you raised your hand to knock-- 

"Come in." A bored tone from inside told. Wasting no time, you pushed the door open, stepping through the threshold. You found Sherlock quick – he was laying in bed, his arms folded on his chest as he stared at the ceiling as if it had all the answers in the world written on it. You glanced around briefly – relatively clean, but also indeed of dusting! _That hypocrite._ "I texted you an hour ago." He said. You shrugged, moving to sit on the more comfy looking armchair by the fireplace. 

"Yeah, how did you get my number again? Because I don't exactly recall giving it to you." You said, plopping down. Sherlock sat up, though he still wasn't looking at you. 

"Your manager gave it to me." 

"Why?" 

He finally turned to you. 

"Because I'm a detective and you are the first one to see the body." He explained.  

"Okay, seems fair." You agreed, "So..." You really didn’t like the way he was staring, "Why am I here, exactly? Your message implied urgency but..." 

"Ah yes, I forgot about that. I wanted to ask you to come to the crime scene but you took too long." 

"I was...only an hour-..Did you go?" 

"No." 

"Why?" He leaned in at your question, narrowing his calculating irises at you. 

"You're profiling me." He stated, making a small smile tug in your lips, "I should've figured it out sooner. You're a psychologist you must find my mind very interesting." You stood up from your seat, looking around his flat, leaving the purse on the armchair. You shrugged. 

"What gave it away?" 

"Your degree, first of all. That and you ask a lot of questions." 

"What else?" 

"The dip in your finger on your right hand. You don’t study anymore so that means it's not notes you're taking." You stalked to the fireplace as he explained, wiping your finger on a dusty surface. 

"You're clever." You told, turning to him with a smile, "But not very tidy either." You held up your finger with a layer of gray particles on it, "In terrible need of dusting." His expression suddenly changed at your comment, his eyes more focused and aware. The place you touched...was somewhere ** _he_** remarked about dead skin. 

"Yes, well" Sherlock was quick to snap out of it, "tell that to Mrs. Hudson." He hopped off the couch and with a couple of long strides he was by the door, putting his coat and scarf on. 

"Crime scene?" You asked. 

"Crime scene, now let's go." 

**_Same day, 5_** ** _:15pm._**  

As you begrudgingly paid the taxi driver since Sherlock didn’t bring his wallet, you briefly glanced at the said male that was gazing at the hotel you work in. The fountains were still one despite it being closed for the time being. 

"Do you have a permit?" You asked, coming to stand next to him as the taxi drove by.  

"No. But you have a key-card." 

You sighed. 

"A little heads up next time. I almost took it out my purse." You searched for your wallet, "C'mon, back door it is." 

**_S_** ** _ame day, 3:40pm._**  

Sherlock stared into the ceiling, out of the corner of his eyes seeing John moving around the flat, talking about something but he wasn’t listening. Instead, his head was occupied by more interesting matters  - no, it wasn't the case, despite what the masses would believe. It was you. 

You. A simple minded girl, who didn’t like anyone poking around her bedroom. But that's not what bothered him. 

He clearly recalled your features and he wouldn't pay any mind to you if you didn’t have this strange effect. 

When he gazed at you, he couldn’t deduce anything.  

_Skin ????_    
 _Hair ????_    
 _Eyes ????_    
 _Lips ????_    
 _Piercings ????_    
 _Body in general ????_    
 _Clothing????_  

He only picked up your habits after examining your flat, which was very easy, but everything that had to do with you was just one big blank. Sure, he could pick up something from you by doing math which was already something he hardly ever did when deducing humans. He couldn't tell what were you doing before they _he_ rudely banged on your door and he couldn’t tell what would you do after they left. What you were thinking. Searching. Wishing about. 

All of it was one...big...blank. 

A tug on the corner of his lip made him smirk. 

You reminded him of Irene Adler, in away. But you were simpler. Much, much simpler. 

Or were you? 

He couldn’t tell, and it bothered him beyond comprehension. 

**_Same day, 5:25pm._**  

You took awhile getting up the stairs and also convincing the security guard you weren't breaking an entry. When you finally did manage to stand by the white oak door of Peter's room, you glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at everything else but the it. He examined the hallway, the carpeting, even the vase you threw your gum in before returning to you with a neutral expression. 

"Well?" You inquired, urging him to speak. He raised a brow. "Find anything?" You clarified. 

"No. I'm a detective, not a psychic." He told, "now unlock the door." 

"Why the pacing around then--" 

"The door, (Lastname)." With a roll of your eyes you obayed. The lock clicked and you put the handy key-card back into your purse so you wouldn’t lose it. Without further ado, Sherlock pushed the door open with his gloved fingers, it creaking open. A smell of chemicals  hit your nose and you frowned, glancing at Holmes who was not surprised in the slightest. He took the first step inside, easily maneuvering through the whole room whilst you stalked to the bathroom. The door was opened again. You switched on the lights. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in this overly expensive milky colored bathroom with a sweet lavender scent. You poked your head out to see what the detective was doing – he seemed to have some sort of small glass out and was examining the wooden floorboards. 

"Find anything?" He repeated your question from earlier. 

"Besides the realization of how much I want to life in this hotel instead of my flat, no." Came your sarcastic reply as you shut the lights and went to Sherlock, "And you?" 

"No signs of breaking in, whoever killed Peter was invited by him." He told, "See the specks of dirt? Footprints. No one else is allowed in this room and they are fresh. The killer must've forgotten something and came back, just a couple of hours before we got here." 

"I mean, we got in pretty easy." You decided to roll with it. 

"Yes, but that's only because the guards knows your mother" You blinked, surprised. 

"How--" 

"The way he looked at you: surprise mixed with fear. He recognized you, but you didn’t. He's new here, right? So either you're a local celebrity--" 

"Got it." You cut him off, raising your hand. Sherlock was not pleased. "But he can't be the killer." 

"Why not? He's new here and--" 

"Because it's never the security guard, Sherlock." You dismissed him. 

"Would you let me finis--" 

"I think a woman did it." You declared, "Maybe he was cheating and she found out." You pondered, "So cheesy, but it could be true. What do you think?" You turned your head to stare at the man that was no longer there, "Sherlock?" You called out. Then you noted the lights in the bathroom on again. You sighed, stalking to him. Now he was examining the sink, "by the way, didn’t you already sweep this place with the police?" 

"I did." He told, peering into the mirror, "I wanted to see if the killer would come back. And it did. Obvious emotional murder. Too attached. Shouldn’t be hard to find, most likely would confess if confronted." He suddenly turned to you, "It may be a woman after all." 

"Wow..." You murmured, "Just like in those telenovelas..." 


	3. Do you think he heard me praise him?

**_Same day, 6:_** ** _35pm_** ** _._**  

As you followed after the detective back into his flat, you were a tad surprised to find John pacing around, his voice tinted with displeasure as the first thing he did was lecture Sherlock about 'staying safe' and 'texting him' when needed. It was honestly pretty entertaining to watch, and you didn’t bother interrupting until his kind irises landed on you. His face formed a question, most likely 'What are you doing here?', but Sherlock beat you to answering. 

"She was at the crime scene with me." He explained, taking off his coat and throwing it on the hanger. You shuffled away from the entrance and plopped down on the couch. John turned to the detective, about to ask another question- "-Because I needed an assistant and you were on a date." Sherlock glanced at you, his cold gaze portraying annoyance, "Though, not a very good one. Kept interrupting me." John looked behind Sherlock, seeing you taking out your notebook out of your small brown purse. 

"Really?" He asked, a mixture of amusement and mischief tinting his voice. You lifted your head up and nodded, "Couldn't help myself." You added, noticing how Holmes rolled his eyes and took a seat in the armchair you previously sat on. In a matter of seconds, the tips of his fingers were touching as if he was an evil mastermind thinking about his devious schemes. Not that that would surprise you, really.  

John smiled at you, "Tea? Coffee?" He asked. You smiled back, mumbling a quick 'Tea' as your (color) eyes gazed back at Sherlock, "Oh, he's going to be out for a while." John explained, moving to the kitchen. Leaving your notebook on the couch you followed after him, inspecting the cramped space with a curious glance. 

"Doesn’t it annoy you?" You asked, leaning onto the counter and watching as he put some tea leafs into two porcelain cups. John shrugged. 

"You get used to it." He replied with a light-hearted smile, "I hope he didn’t cause any trouble for you." 

"Oh, no no." You shook your head, glancing at the thinking detective, "It was a bit odd, is all. Getting a text out of nowhere, almost breaking an entry, realizing I'm living in a telenovela." You stated simply, making John chuckle. 

"Telenovela?" 

"Well, yeah." You said as he poured the boiling water, "Sherlock and I think it was a woman who killed Peter. Like, a woman's wrath. Vengeful. Shitty drama. Most likely found out he had a side-chick or something." You carefully took the cup, murmuring a 'thanks' before the two of you went back to the living room and sat down, "Sherlock could give you an update if he wasn’t, uhm-" _Did he even blink?_ "-preoccupied." You finished dryly. John shook his head. 

"No need. He'll start ranting about it eventually. Say, did you go to the police?" 

"We stopped by, met some Lestrade, didn't really bother snooping since I was seated outside." 

"I'm guessing by Donovan?" 

"If you mean angry looking lady that called Sherlock a 'freak', then yes. Donovan." You blew on your drink, "And I don’t get the freak part at all, you know? I mean, deducing isn't something new, nor is it unnatural. We all do it. It's basically an advanced form of judging someone. Most people in my class, and _especially_   those who study law - but that's a whole different story – were master deducers. Not as fast as our detective, but still – good." You took a careful sip, "Well...Okay, they weren't even _near_ Sherlock's level – _How could he even tell I watch late night TV?_ \- but still decent." You glanced at Sherlock, "Do you think he heard me praise him?" 

"Yes." Came Sherlock's dull reply. Watson grinned. 

"So you practice deducing too?" He asked. Sherlock glanced at you. You licked your lips, tasting the last drops of mint tea on them. 

" _Well._..I don't like making assumptions about people I first meet since it's rude, but I guess I know a trick or two." You confessed, "I mainly profile – gather information on subjects I know already. Way more fun." 

"Could you profile the woman we're after?" Sherlock asked. You thought about it. 

"I haven't seen her, nor do I know her. Actually, I never seen anyone come into Peter's room beside me." 

"Then maybe you're the killer." You snorted at his remark. 

 _"Of course_ I am. I'm a girl, so I fit that category. I'm the only one that moved in and out his room. Why haven't you arrested me yet?" 

"Because it's never the room service." You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

 ** _September 25_** ** _th_** ** _, 11:_** ** _27am_** ** _._**  

Vladimir's Nobokov's 'Lolita' was neatly tugged under your arm as with a fast pace you trotted through the streets of London to your local library, which sadly was a couple of blocks away. The headphones in your ears drowned out the sounds of city life, the sun over your head heating your form as you felt yourself getting hot. You slowed your pace, oblivious to a car with tinted windows carefully following after you. 

Only when you reached the crossing did you catch a glimpse of it – you waved your hand 'thanks' as it let you cross. The  library was only five minutes away by now, and turning a narrow corner you continued on your venture. Only to feel the back of your neck tingle – was someone watching you? Alarmed, as casually as you could you looked behind you – the street was empty of people, old cars were parked near flats and the only traffic was that same car which let you pass. You gulped, stopped moving and took out an earpiece as the black Mercedes parked right next to you. You blinked, both confused and slightly panicked. The car's window rolled down. 

"Miss (Name) (Lastname), I assume?" Came a man's voice, "Please, take a ride with me." You were about to decline – _how did this man know my name?!_ \- when he spoke again, "I know of a mutual friend of ours, I believe you met him a  couple of days ago." You frowned, softly. Was he talking about Sherlock? You glanced around and noted an elderly lady walking by. If all else fails, you'd scream for help. At least someone would hear you. 

Throwing out everything your mother told you about ' _not getting into strangers cars_ ' out the window, with a determined sigh you opened the door and took a seat on the comfortable leather seats. The car started moving. Now that you had a better look at the man, you realized why he talked with such authority – as if the Mercedes wasn’t a dead giveaway yet, the man was surely very rich. A bit older, with a gentle face but his eyes were cool like Autumn weather in Britain. And somehow very familiar. He smiled at you. 

"Allow me to introduce myself," He spoke, "Mycroft Holmes." You raised a brow. 

"As in...Sherlock's brother?" 

"That is correct. It has come to my attention that the two of you are friends." 

"I wouldn’t...go as far as to call us friends, I mean we met yesterday and--" 

"But he took you out, no?" 

"To a crime scene. I don’t think that qualifies as a date, and—that's not even the point. Why am I here, exactly?" 

"You agreed to ride along." He replied, simply. 

"Because you asked." 

"Do you always listen to what people tell you to do?" You narrowed your eyes at him, displeased. Mycroft only smiled again, "And if your answer is a 'no', then why come with me? If you and Sherlock aren't 'friends' as you say, then why?"  

"You like to ask a lot of questions." 

"I'm merely worried for my brother's safety. He's young. And foolish. And does not put his trust in other people." Mycroft said, "And since you're already here, and despite you denying it, have some sort of connection with Sherlock, I'd like to propose an offer." Your suspicion grew by the millisecond. "It's simple, really. All I ask is to keep an eye on him and report back to me when he does something...morally questionable or idiotic." 

"And--" 

"In return? Name any number you want." He said it so simple that your jaw almost dropped, "It doesn’t matter how many zeros. Name your price, (Name)." It felt like a wave of cold water washed over you—was this man crazy?! Any number?!...You could travel the world! And pay off your student debts! And...and buy a better apartment, possibly go shopping with your mum in those pricey vintage boutiques in Brighton—the possibilities were endless!!!... 

...But spying on Sherlock? Mycroft's 'keeping an eye on him' sure does sound like an invasion of privacy on a major scale. Besides...Where does this man even get his money? Is it some shady business? What if you get involved in some gang wars, or dear _God_ , you'd be killed in a minute.  

The man beside you must've noticed the conflict in your expression and hummed, distracting you from your thoughts and making you look at him. 

"I'll..." You gulped, feeling your throat run dry, "I'll think about it." You finished. A decision like this...can't be made  so quick. Mycroft nodded, taking out a business card from his jackets pocket. 

"Call me whenever if you change your mind." He said with a smile. You took the neatly organized piece of paper. The car stopped, "Until then, Miss (Lastname)." You nearly jerked – it was your cue to leave. Clumsily you opened the door and stepped out, finding yourself in the same place it picked you up. 

"Yeah, later." You mumbled lamely, shutting the door. The car drove off. Fiddling with the paper in your hands, you sighed heavily remembering why you initially even came to this part of town, "I'll return it tomorrow..." You told yourself. Right now you really needed to mull everything over, since the realization that all of your dreams just drove away made you almost sick. 

The buzz of your mobile briefly brought you back into reality as you strolled back home. Your favorite melody started playing as you took out the small device from your pocket, frowning softly as you read the callers ID: **John**. 

"Hello?" 

" _Yes, hello! (Name), this is John. Sorry to call you so early, hope I'm not bothering you._ " 

"No..." You told, shaking your head like an idiot, "No, no of course you aren't." 

" _Are...are you okay? You sound distraught--_ " 

"Yeah, I'm fine...just a lot on my mind, is all. So, what do you need?" 

" _Oh! Yes, see, not the best news, but there's been another murder. Just in a  different hotel, but all signs point it to be the same killer._ " A sigh, " _Sherlock's worried. Not that he shows it, but he's pacing around the room since nine and hasn’t stopped. Could you drop by?_ " 

Not like you really had a choice. "Be there in an hour." Was your reply, "Oh, and please don't run off anywhere, you two." 

" _At this rate, I doubt we will be leaving the flat anytime soon._ "


	4. Would you like to grab a coffee sometime?

_**Same day, 12:30pm.** _

You barged into the flat, your cheeks dyed red as you huffed for air. John jumped in his seat. Sherlock stopped pacing idly, his calculating irises sweeping your body up and down until they lastly landed on your face. "You're late." He stated. You sighed, running a hand through your hair and trying to untangle some loose strands since they got ruffled admits your sprint. Your lungs still lacked oxygen dearly, but you tried not to wheeze – was the flat warmer or was it just you? 

"I...Missed...the-uh-the bus..." You squeezed out, your voice dying at the end of your sentence, "- _both_ , actually." You added, forgetting to close the door, stalking over to the couch and smiling once you finally got the rest you so desperately needed. You laid your head on the pillows, closing your eyes for a brief moment as the two men talked among themselves. Something about the murder, that's all you could catch – you were either slowly going deaf from listening to music so loudly or having trouble focusing. 

"If it's such a pain to come to us, then move in." Sherlock's cool voice was like being hit with a  frying pan as you abruptly sat up with a jolt, staring at him as if he had grown two heads. Johns expression closely resembled your own, or so you guessed. "Well not here, obviously. I mean to Baker Street. There are empty places right next door. Or here, in the basement." He added shortly, watching you with a pleased smile. You gaped at him, your exhaustion long forgotten. 

"Y-...You do realize my life doesn’t revolve around you, right, Sherlock?" You managed to form a coherent sentence and were immensely proud. 

"Of course it does." He told, "That's why you came running. You're bored. Admit it. And by the looks of it, running around and catching trains for forty minutes will  give you a heart attack so for your own safety you should move...Also I'm really tired of waiting up for you." 

" _Sherlock-_ -" John started. 

"I am..." Your eyes went from John to Sherlock and back, "Am I...Am I apart of your--" 

"--group?" Sherlock finished for you, "Yes." That wasn’t the answer you expected. "John already started writing about you on his blog." John gasped. 

" _ **Sherlock**_!" 

" _You wrote about me_?" 

"I was going to ask you if I could but I just didn’t have the time--" with a raise of his hand the detective silenced John.  

"Boring. Now, about your moving plans--" 

"You're serious about this." You blinked. 

"Of course I am." Sherlock fired back, displeased, "Would you stop interrupting me?" You were about to bite back, but restrained, instead lifting yourself off the couch and leaving 'Lolita' on the soft pillows. Sherlock's gaze immediately shot to the book – did he not notice it at first? "As I was saying..." His eyes were fixed on it as he spoke, "Mrs. Hudson has a spare room downstairs. You should go talk to her." 

"Am I the only one," You mumbled, "that sees the money issue?" His sharp gaze pierced you.  

"Didn’t you take the offer?" You blinked, surprised, feeling your fingertips go numb. Silence settled between the two of you. 

"Are you talking about Mycroft?" Came John's curious squeak. 

"How did you know?" 

"I guessed." 

"So _you are_ talking about Mycroft!" 

"No...No I didn’t." 

"Why? If you did you could've bought a flat next door." 

"Do you want me to take it?" 

"That's irrelevant." 

"Sherlock, even if (Name) did make a stupid decision to listen to you and move near..." John intervened, "She couldn’t just move in a day." 

"Why not?" 

" _Why not_?!" John gaped, "because this is the real world, Sherlock!" 

You weren't sure if you wanted to live closer to these two or not. 

 

_**Same day, 1:05pm.** _

 

No matter how sweet Mrs. Hudson appeared, you'd first stumble upon another dead body than move into her basement. 

 

_**Same day, 1:46pm.** _

 

You squeezed in between the two men in the taxi, clouds already gathering above your head. The ride was very uncomfortable – John kept squirming and apologizing as you merely rolled your eyes and told him to stop, whilst Sherlock stayed stiff as a plank; either he was deep in thought or scared to move. Either way, next time you’d yell shotgun and sit next to the driver these men be damned. 

 _Next time?_ You surprised yourself with how easily the idea came to mind. Admit it or not, Mycroft was right. You really were Sherlock's friend. Or at least...becoming one, that is.  

When you finally arrived at the crime scene the stormy clouds were blown away by the harsh wind, sun-rays beaming down on you and making you squint your eyes just to see. John paid the driver this time – your suspicions were correct: Sherlock never had a wallet on him. The scenery around you was a very drastic change from the Five Star Hotel you worked in – it closely resembled one of those American motels what usually had wannabe drug lords lingering around. You staid close to the older men, your previous thought still fresh in mind. 

Police vehicles were parked near the entrance of one room that had a nasty smell coming out of it and police officers running left and right. Curiously, the three of you approached the crime scene, ducking behind a yellow tape and nodding at some officers who were about to ask who you are. When they recognized Sherlock they only sent a dirty look and went back to work. 

" **Finally**!" A familiar voice boomed. The next minute you see Lestrade poking his head out through the open door, greeting Sherlock and John as he came to stand next to them, "Where in _Jove_ were you two?" 

"Busy." Was all Sherlock mumbled, striding past the older man. John gave an apologetic smile and followed after the detective. If only now realizing you were here also, Lestrade blinked, obviously surprised. A small smile tugged on his lips, and quickly fixing his composure he asked, "Excuse me, but...have we met before?" 

"Briefly." You answered, "I was with Sherlock at Scotland Yard." 

"Oh, that's right... You're...?" 

"(Name) (Lastname)." You introduced, extending your hand to shake. He quickly obligated. 

"Lestrade. But please, call me Greg." You grinned at the sudden change in tone – was he trying to flirt? "So, you met Sherlock on the murder investigation?" You hummed, "What a case...What a case..." He glanced behind him and then his kind eyes returned  to you, "And what are you...in this team, exactly?" 

"Consulting psychologist." You blurred. 

"(Name)." Came Sherlock's bored tone out the room. 

"Oh, interesting!" Lestrade nodded, "Say, would you like to grab a coffee sometime?" 

" _(Name)_!" 

"Sure, that'd be lovely," You let your mouth run without thinking twice, "Ah, _uh_ , have to go now. Sherlock already waited an hour for me to get here so it would be rude for him to wait one more. " You added, quickly hurrying to check why was the Detective so impatient. 

"You don’t live near him?!" You heard Lestrade call after you. 

"No!" 

" _Yes_!" It might have just been your ears playing tricks on you, but you were dead sure you just heard him cheer at the fact. Your mind was quickly wiped clean of any ideas as the stench of copper hit you full force. You saw Sherlock crouching next to...You fixed your gaze on the man. You were not going to look at that pool of blood and guts. Finally, the detective met your gaze and trotted to you, his expression portraying annoyance. 

"Did you really agree to go on a coffee date with Lestrade?" He asked. You blinked. 

"Did I?" 

"Yes."  

"Are you angry?" Sherlock raised a brow at the question. 

"Perhaps a tad disappointed by your low standards," You gaped, offended, "Well, now that that's covered," He turned his head to the corpse, "Sofia Bell, late twenties from what I assume. Liked to play basketball, there's a sports bag in the back with a ball and her uniform. Best of her class, no wonder she was killed." He walked up to the dead woman. You stayed back, biting your lip, "No bad habits, though social. See,--" He glanced at you. "(Name)." He told flatly. 

"Yes?" 

"I don’t think the wall has the answers we need. Come here." 

"I don’t want to look at it." 

"It's a _her_ and she was a lovely lady now come here." 

"Sherlock, you can't force her to examine a corpse with you." 

"She's my consulting psychologist, Watson, how will she learn anything without practice?" 

"The internet can provide a lot of answers--" 

"Boring. _(Name)_ , look at me or I will force you." 

" _Sherlock_!" 

"For God's sake, John, _shut up_. **(Name)**." 

"I... _uhm_ , did some digging and...and" The smell was really throwing you off, "...Peter was the coach of that team she...she belonged in. I'm taking a wild guess and saying that whoever killed her wanted to be the star but wasn’t allowed to." You blurred, examining the pictures of Manhattan on the pale motel walls and trying your hardest not to look at the dead body. Sherlock sighed. 

"Croissant, (Name)?" 

"Instead of offering croissants, Lestrade, fetch me the names of Windfalls girl basketball team." 

"Oi! I'm not your lapdog!" 

"Yes you are now go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter this one, guys. I just had to squeeze in some things before the big introduction...Not gonna say any more ;)  
> Also, flirting is allowed. Lestrade already likes the Reader, so expect some remarks being tossed around by Sherlock in the future.  
> Thank you for the kudos and comments! <3


	5. Lolita.

_**September 26th, 10:20am** _

Your feet traveled the same street Mycroft took you by surprise yesterday. 'Lolita' was hiding in your big purse, you decided the small one wouldn’t fit the amount of stuff you had to carry. With a heavy sigh you fixed the bag on your shoulder – it was definitely weighing you down and making sweat glister on your forehead.

Finally, the library was in sight and you mentally cheered for not meeting anyone related to Sherlock. Especially Lestrade. Oh God didn’t you agree to go on a coffee date with him?

Pushing those thoughts to the side your fingers latched onto the cool metal door handle. A ding ringed in your ears, a smell of old books and coffee tickling your nose as you stepped foot into the vintage bookstore. There weren't many people here – big surprise, the new expensive and flashy bookstore just down the street horded much more attention. Not to mention that prices here for things like textbooks and pencils were ten time higher than normal.

The dull red carpet was pleasant to the eyes as you stepped to the counter, looking around at the strangers that were lounging on an old couch by the window. When you turned back your eyes met with the clerks - a man, a bit older than you as it seemed. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat and offering you a somewhat awkward smile. You returned it.

"Hi..." He said, shuffling some papers, "Can I...can I help you?" With that he found your gaze again and locked it. For a second you lost your train of thought.

 _"What_? Oh, yeah, yeah," You hurriedly mumbled, rummaging your purse for the book. "I'd, _ah_ ," finally you handed it to him, "like to return it." The man nodded, gently taking Nabokov's best work and accidentally grazing your fingers with his. He pulled away in an instant, his green irises landing on the cover.

" _Lolita_..." He glanced back at you, "An interesting choice. Did you like it?" The dip in his soothing voice made you blink owishly.

"Yes." You said, a smile brimming your lips, "Yes I loved it. It's my favorite book." The clerk seemed pleased with your answer. He wrote something down in his noebook and then stamped the book.

"S-see I'm new here, and... It's difficult to remember every face. " He mumbled, lamely "Do you have a library card?" With a swift nod you took out your purse and handed the laminated piece of paper with your details on it. He wrote it down. Before long he shut the book and nodded at you, "I'll see you again, yeah?" You blinked.

"Uhm, sure." You told, "Have a good day." You added, putting your things in that hellishly heavy bag and waving 'Bye' to the awkward man by the counter.

"You too!" You heard him shout after you as the door shut behind you.

**_Same day, 11:05am_ **

You could not believe that you were actually considering moving closer to Sherlock. Yet here you were, playing **_Candy Crush_** whilst riding the bus to Baker st., a place you may as well call your second home since you spent so much time there. Unable to fully focus on the stupidly addicting game you turned it off and looked around to see if you were near the train station. You weren't. Not for fifteen minutes, at least.

You decided to check out some flat's near Sherlock's because you were not a fan of Mrs. Hudson's basement. You briefly contemplated whether you should take John or your friend Piper along with you. Lastly, you decided a female companion would be better. You were supposed to meet her just outside the station--

**Bzzz**

Well, it wasn’t that surprising to get a text. You had friends, after all. Though, your confusion only rose as you read it.

> _Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue  
>  taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap,  
>  at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta._
> 
> _[Message from: xxx xxx xxx]_

You blinked, licking your lips as you glanced around for anyone that might be staring at you. There wasn’t anyone even remotely interested in your tired face. Looking down at your phone you replied:

> _Truly beautiful words._   
>  _Who are you again and how did you get this number?_
> 
> _[Message sent to: xxx xxx xxx]_

The text was almost instant.

> _It's me. From the library._  
>  You gave me your card, remember?   
> It had your number on it and I just...  
>  Well...I wanted to say hi.
> 
> _[Message from: xxx xxx xxx]_

You nearly laughed, smacking your palm onto your lips. Of course it was that dork from the library, who else would ask you about the book and then send you a direct quote from it? This Sherlock like behavior, aka 'I-see-murder-waiting-to-happen-everywhere-I-go' is really rubbing you the wrong way. Though, you were still surprise, albeit pleasantly. You didn’t think the man had enough courage to text someone randomly.

> _That's one way to make an introduction._   
>  _What can I call you? Or do I just name_   
>  _you 'Library clerk'?_
> 
> _[Message to: xxx xxx xxx]_

His next message only reached you when you stepped out the bus.

> _You can call me Jim ;)_
> 
> _[Message from: xxx xxx xxx]_

_**Same day, 2:30 pm.  
Mc'Donalds** _

"But I, _like_ , don’t get it. Why move? _I mean_ , first the murder _and now_ you decide to move to Baker Street of all places. Do you know who lives there? _Sherlock Holmes_ lives there. The detective? You've heard of him, right? He's like,  a big deal. _Like_ , such a skilled man, but _**so**_ strange. I read his boyfriends blog. Not bad, could use some major editing--"

"Excuse me did you just say 'boyfriend'?" The tanned girl blinked her long lashes at your amused question, chewing on her French fry in thought.

"Well, yeah, _at least_ that's what everyone is saying." Piper took a sip of her drink, "And you like...picked the flats literally next door to him. Is there something you're not telling me? Are **you** the killer? If so, can I be the first to report you? _I mean_ , that would show Sherlock Holmes. The greatest detective on British soil outsmarted by a law student. Wouldn’t the press love that? I mean, I already picked an outfit and everything. Been shopping with Kate recently, but honestly she is such a bore— _ **Hey**_! Why you smiling?" You looked up from your phone, only able to catch the last part of her long speech.

"Oh, _uhm,_ it's nothing." You locked the screen and put it on the table, taking a chicken nugget. Piper grinned at you.

"Who is it?"

"No one, I said it’s nothing."

"I know that face."

"What face?"

"The ' _A cute guy just texted me_ ' face!" She exclaimed, almost loudly enough to turn heads. You started at Piper, unable to hold back the smile that started to form on your lips as you giggle. The girl nearly screeched, " _Well_? Who is he? Where you meet him? Instagram? Snapchat? Give me a name, (Name), I must find out if he has baggage."

"It's really nothing. Just a cute guy from the library I go to. His name is Jim."

"Thank God it's not 'Bob', " She commented with a roll of her eyes, "such a boring name." She added, sipping on a bright red straw. You shrugged.

"He's really sweet, though. A bit of a dork, super shy, but really sweet." You started, "Like, he's taller than me, almost by half a head. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A bit older, but not _too_ much. Has the _sexiest_ accent ever, and like, it doesn’t fit his personality. _Like_ , he sometimes talks _really low_ and then like a normal person, but when he talks low _I swear_ he's like...a different person, in a way. And those _eyes_ , Piper _!_ So piercing!"

"He doesn’t sound that sweet to me."

"I know, right?! His appearance _sooo_ doesn’t fit him. Anyway, he call's me Lolita."

"Isn't that the--"

"My favorite book? _Yes_! I'm sorry I'm just too... _too_ hyped for this."

"How long have you known him?"

"Exactly...three hours?"

"Oh, (Name), guys _that_ sweet can't be real."

" _Ha!_ Found one right here!"

> _Sherlock is wondering how the  
>  flat hunting went, just too prideful to ask directly.   
>  You know how he is. Stop by when you can._
> 
> _[Message from: John]_

"Is it him?" Piper asked, watching as the screen of your phone light up. You shook your head, taking the last piece of chicken nuggets and devouring it in one go.

"Nope, but I gotta dash. Clean up for me will you?" You stood up, yanking your bag over your shoulder and giving a quick peck on Pipers cheek as she merely rolled her eyes.

"The things I do for my best girl. You keep me updated on Library Jim!"

> _I think Lolita suits you better._   
>  _A passion for adventure, childish curiosity..._   
>  _They say you become what you read._
> 
> _[Message from: Library Jim]_
> 
>  
> 
> _And what do you read, may I ask?_
> 
> _[Message to: Library Jim]_

Again, the reply reached you as you were opening the door to Sherlock's apartment.

> _I'm not sure you have heard of those titles.  
>  But I'd be more than happy to give you a rundown._
> 
> _[Message from: Library Jim]_

" _Well_?" You blinked away from your phone to find Sherlock nowhere, yet you clearly heard his voice. "Kitchen." It added. You stumbled forward, and what you saw made you drop your mobile.

" _Jesus Christ_ are those **eyeballs**!?"

"Sorry, (Name), should've warned you sooner. Sherlock kept me busy."

"Doing what, exactly?!"

"Polishing my scalpel," Sherlock's monotone voice intervened. His gaze was strictly fixed on the, dare you think, human eyes. "Watson, scalpel."

"You know, I'm a doctor--"

" _Scalpel_."

Why did you even bother running?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY!!!!!!!! Moriarty is in this story. The big introduction is done. Now we can start having some real fun *evil snicker*  
> Hope you liked this chapter! Thank you all for the kudos and comments! <3


	6. What a way to say hello...

_**October 16th, 9:05pm.** _

 

An amused smile stretched on his lips, the opera music lulling his ears as he typed back a reply. The model across the table rolled her vibrant eyes, sipping on her wine in displeasure and releasing an annoyed sigh to catch the mans attention. Her gaze briefly scanned if anyone was within eyesight – he was the only other person in this expensive restaurant. She leaned back in her chair, patiently waiting for him to finish playing with his phone. Once he did look up at her he flashed a bright grin her way, making her roll her eyes again. It was as if nothing prior to that text message had happened. As if she never confessed she wanted something more than being his playmate.

"Jim..." She prolonged his name, leaning back in and grasping his hand from across the table lovingly. She clapped her lashes – as far as she knew Jim Moriarty was a very rich businessman working in where ever with a discreet taste in young beautiful women. Moriarty glanced away, almost shyly, "Please answer me..."

"Answer what?" The tone he spoke in made her freeze, her fingers locking with his as his grip tightened almost painfully. His eyes pierced her own, the look in them striking fear in her heart as she slowly sat back down unable to look away from him, "I heard you the first time." He told, bored, letting go of her hand and wiping his palm on the tablecloth as If what he touched was something foul, "You want me to be your piggy bank." He stated, "And you know, I actually considered It." A smile tugged on the corner of his lip, "But then I thought...'nah'."

"J-Jim?" Her hands shook, a thin layer of sweat coating her healthy skin.

"That's Moriarty to you, darling..." He said, "Did you try the wine?" Faking curiosity, he tilted his head to the side, "I hope you did. The waiter told me it was to die for." He waited without saying a word, smiling brighter as he closed his eyes to savor her dying chokes. A heavy thud echoed in the restaurant along with the clang of tableware. Moriarty hummed to the tune of _Habanera_. The beeping of a new message pulled him out his daze and snapping his fingers he called the waiter, "Check, please!"

 

_**October 17th, 11:10am.** _

 

You cleared your throat awkwardly, shifting in your seat you briefly droned out what ever Lestrade was blabbering about and fiddled with the cup of your coffee. The café was warm and cozy: you picked this one since it already had Halloween decorations up. Leaning back on the comfortable pillows you blew on your drink. Why did you agree to this again?

Lestrade smiled, brightly, recalling some past events in the force, his gaze far away and directed somewhere out the window. "And you?" He suddenly asked, making you jerk and nearly spill your delicious drink.

"Oh, _uhm_ , sorry, got a bit, _uh_ ," You set the cup down, "distracted." You licked your lips, tasting off the last drops of coffee on them, "What was...the question again?"

"Do you like working with Sherlock." He repeated. At least he didn’t seem irritated that you weren't listening. Your vision flashed with the socially awkward man mumbling something about being bored, his stiff form pacing around his flat as his eyes once every now and then landing on you to glare at you for not paying attention and you instantly smiled.

"Yeah, yeah I do. He's...he's something else, you know? Such an interesting person..."

"And it doesn’t bother you?"

"What...doesn't bother me?"

"That...you know..." Lestrade fiddled with his half empty cup, "That he's a sociopath."

The news took you by surprise. You blinked, owlishly, unable to process the information. Suspicion rose, and quickly you narrowed your eyes at him, searching his face for a lie but finding nothing but God honest truth. "Why would you say that?" You asked, sharply.

"I didn’t. He did." Lestrade told, taking a sip, " _'A high functioning sociopath. Do your research, Lestrade_." He mocked under his breath. "The nerve of him..." Your lips pried to speak, but unable to form a sentence you closed them shut. _Why would...Why would Sherlock say that? He's not a sociopath. I'd know if he was, I am sure of that. After all, if I really did fail to notice him being a cold blooded man with no remorse my college teacher would be so disappointed... Could it really be? No...Sherlock obviously cared about John...Then again, sociopaths could form strong bonds with some people...But he was too straightforward, he hardly lied, he was a genius for crying out loud! He had an inflated ego and trouble communicating, but hardly means anything...Did he feel remorse? Now that was the real question. It didn’t look like it when he was examining corpses or other...human body parts. Would he feel bad if a kitten was hurt? Would he even pet a kitten? He doesn't seem like the kitten type..._

"--(Name)?"

" **Yes?** " You snapped, finding Lestrade's hand hoovering over your face, " _I'm here!_  Sorry. Just what you said really... _well_ , it's sure a thought." You finished with a lame smile.

_Or could he be pretending? To me he just looked socially awkward if anything... I'll have to find out on my own._

"Yeah, hey, sorry, it's been a fun morning, thanks for the coffee, but I _really_ need to dash." You hurriedly said, standing up and grabbing all of your belonging.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"The shelter!"

 

_**Same day, 2:00pm.** _

 

The fluffy ball of cuteness slept quietly in your palms as the pads of your fingers caressed it's gentle fur with a loving smile on your face. You hopped up the steps of Sherlock's flat, yelling a quick 'Hello' to Mrs.Hudson as she gaped at the sleeping kitten in your hands, "Is...is that a _cat_?!" She proclaimed, but you didn’t stick around to chat. You didn’t bother knocking on the door – after all, you visited Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson everyday since Sherlock solved the case. It turned out to be a very flimsy female basketball player that wanted all of the attention to herself. Well, she got what she wanted. And twenty years in jail along with it.

You carefully opened the door, poking your head in to see if John was near – he would freak if he saw a cat in his flat. Sherlock was sitting by his laptop, not making a move to acknowledge your existence. Taking it as a welcoming sign you quickly got inside

before Mrs.Hudson had enough sense to kick you and the kitten out. Finally, you had the chance to test if Sherlock was truly a sociopath or not.

As if on cue, the man lifted his stern grey eyes from the monitor to eye you and the fur-ball in your hands, "What is that thing?" He asked, flatly. You came closer, noting his irises following your each and every move.

"It's a kitten." You explained, standing next to him. Sherlock frowned.

"And why did you bring it here?"

"I want you to take care of it for me for today." You said, setting the sleeping feline on the couch next to him, " _Don't put it on the--!_ " He sighed, you only offered a small consoling smile. "It'll be fun, yeah? I want to bring it home but it's too far away and the bus rides would kill him. I'll call a cab at night, don't worry. He won't be--"

"I'm not worried about the... _cat_." He told, stiffly, turning back to the monitor. Damn, you cursed. Not even the appearance of a kitten could make him crack. We'll see how it goes... You threw a knowing look the cat's way, one Sherlock definitely noticed and in turn his suspicion grew. "What are you planning?"

"Hm?" You hummed, blinking owlishly.

"I know that face."

"What face?"

"The 'I am planning something' face."

"That's just my normal face." You told _, "And why do people always comment on my face..._?" You added quietly.

"Is it now?"

"Yes."

A tense silence followed after your words. "Did Lestrade say something about me?"

" _Oh my days_ , Sherlock!" You snapped, "Can't I just adopt a kitten? Is it so unexpected for _me_ to get a companion? Why does everything have to have a motive behind it? Why do _you_ have to make it all so clever?" You shook your head in disappointment, "Just take care of the cat. I'll be back in a few." You finished tiredly. He was too close to the truth.

"You want to know why?" His rollback surprised you. Was that a hidden note of anger in his voice? "Because three people are _dead_ and more are going to die in a sick and twisted fashion to meet a certain someone's demands at the exact same time the message implied so forgive me if I'm not in the best of moods to take care of your new possessions." He threw a glare at the cat, "Now get it off the couch or John will yell at me."

"Wait..." You mumbled after processing what he said, "Wait... wait wait..." You could feel a headache forming, "Murder? Messages? I don’t understand--"

"And you're not supposed to. Now go wherever you were going prior to us having this discussion." He finished, scrolling through some news outlet.

" _Sherlock._ " You told sternly.

" **What?** "

"What messages?" You pestered, crossing your arms over your chest to prove you were not moving. After a bit of consideration, he sighed, pulling up a window on his laptop screen and turning it to you. You leaned in, hands on your knees as you carefully scanned the unknown email and the message it portrayed:

  
_Henry Filbs_   
_Elenor Parker_   
_Lola and Lizzy Folk_   
_Oswin Oswald_   
_Sara Jane_   
_Hilda Mathews_   
_Evelyn Grey_   
_Rita Adams_   
_Luke Hemming_   
_Oliver Bank_   
_Carter Williams_   
_Kate Welsh_

You re-read the message and the dates next to the names a few more times, a bitter taste filling your mouth as you took in a sharp breath and turned to stare at Sherlock in horror, "' _Hello Sherlock_ '" You deadpanned, feeling your knees grow weak you abruptly stood up only to take a step back to steady yourself, "It says... _'Hello Sherlock_ '." You stated, weak. Sherlock didn’t seem surprised.

"So you noticed."

"Wh- _Who_ -Wh..." Your tongue felt too big for your mouth, your chest heaving up and down from the loss of breath. Sherlock had enemies? The thought was unnerving. And seeing his distressed face (as much as he showed, at least) was even scarier. Dumbly, you plopped down, making the kitten jump awake with a loud mewl. You didn’t pay any mind to it, though, instead trying to mull over what you just saw, "Why would... _Oh God._ "

"Not God, but he likes to play him." Sherlock shut the laptop, putting it on the ground and turning to you, "His name is James Moriarty. Consulting criminal. I'm surprised he hasn’t went after you yet."

"Hasn’t went after _**me**_?" You asked in horror.

" _Yes_ , well, he said he is going to burn the heart out of me, hasn't really managed to do that quite yet. Kidnapped John a while back and nearly blew him up. Be aware of strangers. Never know who might be working for him."

" _James Moriarty_..." You uttered under a sigh.

"He prefers to be called Jim." The name shook you to the bones.

 _"Jim_?" You stressed. Sherlock gave you a once over, carefully calculating the distress on your face.

"Have you met him already?" 

"No...But I met a library clerk with the same name."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty knows the best ways to say hello! I promise you will meet him soon now sh--  
> Also, have y'all seen the trailer for season 4? J.M. is either back or back I'm having none of Maffat's excuses for not bringing him back I will blow up the Empire State building if J.M. is not back //sob  
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! Hope you enjoy the story <3


	7. Dangerous, away, cat.

**_October 21st , evening_ **

Your heart beat loudly in your chest as you gulped, feeling your hands clam up as the man in front of you laughed joyfully. He shut his mouth, tapping his foot impatiently as his palm hid his lips to hold in the giggles. His gaze pierced you like a needle and you felt exactly like a bug under a magnifying glass. Releasing a ragged breath, you were about to speak again when he burst out laughing, “See!” he exclaimed, his hands motioning to you, “this is what I mean!” one would think he won a million dollars with that kind of energy, “You’re so strange! So strange I love it!”

**_Earlier…_ **

You walked down the familiar path to that one vintage bookstore with no intent of going in – just passing by. After all, if you really wanted to avoid it you’d have to go around and that would take too long. The words Sherlock had spoken to you were still fresh in memory “ _He’s insane and very dangerous. Stay away. And get that cat off the couch_.” A nervous tremble shook your body, hot breath leaving your lips and turning into smoke. Autumn evenings were sure cold.

The lamps were dimmed and the small red ‘ _Closed_!’ sign made you almost tumble from relief. With a quickened pace you passed the bookstore, already taking out your phone to fiddle with it when the ding of the main entrance opening struck you like lightning, “Oi! _Lolita_!” The same Irish accent that made your skin heat once made it crawl. Gulping you debated should you just pretend not to hear him and go home or humor him. You stopped moving. Biting your lip, you spun on your heel, faking smile as soon as your eyes met. _Thud_. The jump in your heart threw you off a bit; his smile did too, “Hey…” Jim greeted again, letting go of the door and stepping outside. He glanced around as if expecting someone to jump him, but lastly his gaze returned to you, “I.. _uhm_ , I saw you walking past and I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days so…”

“Oh, yeah.” You said lamely, “I got work again, so I’ve been really busy.”

“Oh right,” His smile twitched, “You work in a hotel.”

“Yes.” You nodded awkwardly. He hummed. Silence stretched between the two of you.

“I, _uhm_ , I’m just locking up,” Jim suddenly said, pointing back at the shop, “If you want to…we could go grab a coffee, or something after I’m done.” You were about to decline him—“Y-You don’t have to… if you don’t want to.” He finished dryly, his eyes looking at you hopefully. For a second you felt conflicted – could this really be that Jim? Again, Sherlock’s voice rang in your ears: _Dangerous, away, cat._

“Sure, why not? It would be nice to catch up.” You blurred. Jim beamed.

“Follow me! I’ll finish up in a couple of minutes!” his enthusiasm was showing and with little hesitation (despite the urge to slap yourself for being an idiot) you followed after him. The door dinged behind you as it shut and deciding not to wander too deep you paced around the windows.

“ _Lolita_ …” He said that name again as if he was not used to the syllables, “Can I ask you something?” You hummed and he continued, “Why is it your favorite book?” He questioned, shuffling some papers by the counter. You glanced at him. So far he wasn’t doing anything suspicious. When you found him finally averting his attention to you, you shrugged lightly.

“I dunno.” You told, “I just…it’s beautifully written. I don’t agree with the context, but, you gotta give credit where credit is due.”

Jim licked his lower lip, “So it doesn’t matter? As long as the story is pretty and entertaining it doesn’t matter if it’s a bit… _twisted_?” His tone lowered into a whisper and that same alien shudder traveled down your spine. Your mouth filled with saliva, and unable to hold his gaze you gulped and decided to inspect some nearby book covers. Your fingers traced the outline of dust on them, “I guess it doesn’t then. Odd, isn’t it?”

“I’m no condoning his actions.” You threw over your shoulder.

“But they don’t bother you.” He pointed out. You could hear a smile in his voice, “Besides, it’s more…so… _so_ much more you are not telling me _, Lolita_.” Was that mischief you heard? Snapping your head to him you found him idly standing in between the bookshelves, “You don’t mind when I call you that, do you? It suits you perfectly. A strange girl.  Adventure driven. A bit…” he pretended to think, “kooky. Stumbles upon a murder. Makes friends with a sociopathic detective. Listens to an old man that invites her to his sho _p_.” He said, popping the ‘p’. “Oh, and I wasn’t referring to the book either.” For a second you froze completely.

**_He knows._ **

**_“_** Tell me _, Lolita_ , did Sherlock put you up to this?” He continued, his eyes like scarabs twinkling under the shade. His tone was light as a feather like he was genuinely curious about your answer. Tensing your jaw you pulled away from inspecting books and checking how clean this shop was, only to lean on the nearby wall as sigh softly.

“No.” You replied. It was partly true. “And he’s not my friend either.”

“ _Tsk tsk tsk_ ,” Jim shook his finger, “lying to me is a b _aaaaa_ d idea.”

_The cat on the couch purred loudly. Sherlock threw a glare at it and then one at you whilst you merely offered him an apologetic smile, “He thinks this is a game. Humor him for a bit, if you so insist on helping. **Don’t** tell John either. Moriarty will think I set you up for this, he thinks I like to make things ‘clever’ and—“_

_“But you do.” You interrupted him. Sherlock frowned, “Remember that time when we first met? You were showing off.”_

_“No I wasn’t.”_

_“John said you were.”_

_“Well John lied now pay attention. Moriarty is **very** dangerous. Likely insane too. Keep a safe distance when confronting him: stay away. He won’t trust you at first – frankly won’t even consider you worthy of his attention. He will see you as a ploy to get to me. Make him believe that you are your own person…And get that cat off the couch.”_

“Assuming things is not like you, Moriarty.”

He smiled, “That’s Jim for you, _Lolita_.” You leaned off the wall, briefly considering should you come closer or not. Sherlock clearly told you to stay away, but taking a few steps closer to the presumably psychopath would show confidence and that’s exactly what you needed. With a light shrug, you crossed your arms over your chest and with a leisurely pace moved to the counter.

“Lolita…ironic, isn’t it? You say me and her are so alike.” There was a brief note of a smile in your voice yet there was no trace of it on your face, “Did you…just happened to forget that she tricked Humbert? Making him believe she loved him, using him for her own needs since he was _so_ r _ecklessly_ in love with her…” You threw a glance at Moriarty, seeing as his full and divine attention was on you: you tried to mimic the intensity of his eyes, though if you succeeded or not was beyond you, “And then she left. Because she was bored. Because someone else came around that wasn’t quite as…well, _right_.” You felt a sting on the back of your neck, a burning sensation that made you slowly tilt your head back, only to find a red dot pointed somewhere near your shoulder. Your heart stopped. You looked back at Moriarty, “I’m not an angel, _Jim_. You don’t need to shoot me for me to fall.”

 _Was I too dramatic?_ The eerie silence was nerve wracking. And the sniper-rifle pointed at you didn’t help either _holy fuc-_

Your heart beat loudly in your chest as you gulped, feeling your hands clam up as the man in front of you laughed joyfully. He shut his mouth, tapping his foot impatiently as his palm hid his lips to hold in the giggles. His gaze pierced you like a needle and you felt exactly like a bug under a magnifying glass. Releasing a ragged breath, you were about to speak again when he burst out laughing, “See!” he exclaimed, his hands motioning to you, “this is what I mean!” one would think he won a million dollars with that kind of energy, “You’re so strange! So strange I love it!”

The mood change was a clear red flag on how unstable he was. Your brain worked a mile a minute trying to analyze him – sadly, you dint have Sherlock’s brilliant deductions skills, though a part of you was sure even Sherlock had trouble reading this man. And he was calling _you_ strange? Well, maybe you were a bit; you weren’t going to deny that. You stared into his eyes trying to find an ounce of information if he believed you or not, but all you found was a captivating gaze that made your thought process slow.

“Not an angel?” It seemed he was saying this to himself more than you, so calmly his voice cut through the air like a knife. “That’s hardly believable with eyes like that.” Was that supposed to be a compliment? Or was that crippling fear you desperately trying to swallow showing in your (color) eyes? “I could shoot you.”

“Do it.” You blurred.

He raised a brow, amused. Showing his hands in his pockets he asked, “Do you think I won’t do it?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m not sure. Isn’t that the beauty of it?”  You said, “Why would you kill me now? Where’s the fun in that, _Jim_? I thought you were a man that appreciated a good game of chess….

 ** _So let’s play_**.”

…

…

…

**_October 22nd , 9:49 am._ **

“(Name)!”  The booming voice of your co-worker rained down like hellfire and begrudgingly you lifted your head from your phone. You were greeted with an energetic smile as the barista plopped down on the sofa next to you in the breakroom, “Is it true?” She suddenly asked, making you raise a brow, “That you and _THE_ Sh--… Oh, are you okay?” Her tone and face twisted with slight worry as she got a better look at you: disheveled hair, paled skin, heavy bags under normally energetic (color) eyes that seemed dull and lifeless by comparison. Did you even get any sleep last night? She didn’t ask, but you could tell that she was thinking it.

No, the answer was obvious. Your whole encounter with Moriarty provided enough adrenaline to last the whole night and keep you agonizingly awake to mull the grave you dug yourself into. _He didn’t believe you_. He wasn’t that stupid. But he decided to humor you, which was a start. Convincing him you weren’t an angel will take time – time you **_don’t have_** – so for most of the night you spent trying to think of a solution to the very apparent problem and stressing just how close to death you were. Also, the things you said – so cringy now that you thought about it. You could’ve said something cool, level headed, smooth even, but no, you being you, you just had to say ‘ _Let’s play’_ or something along those lines. Frankly, you were so terrified about being shot that anything sounded appropriate at the moment.

Long story short, Moriarty really messed with your head. You should’ve listened to Sherlock. Maybe you shouldn’t have offered to help, but…It was only a matter of time before Moriarty came after you to go after Sherlock. It only made sense for you to go at him first. He knew that. You knew that he did. The range of his mind terrified you.

And so did the complete radio silence from his end.

“Yeah, rough night.” You answered briefly,”I’mma take a nap…Talk later?”

“Oh! Yeah! Of course!” She hurriedly said, “Rest up! I’ll come get you if boss calls.”

Laying your head on the pillows you closed your eyes, exhaustion washing over you. The door to the breakroom closed shut and you were left alone.

Your tired irises snapped open, your chest heaving up and down quickly. Fear gripped your shoulders: no going back now. You were living on a ticking time bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Moriarty. I'm crying my best to keep him in character jfc--  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Sorry it took a while to write, I wanted to make sure Jim didn't sound too OOC //sob  
> Things will only get more interesting from here. I actually really like our herione: not too smart, obviously a millennial with her 'cool' and 'hip' slang, brave (???? debatable???) and has a kind-heart (views Sherlock like kinda test subject but not really but kinda???? not that kind???). IN OTHER WORDS I THINK SHE'S RELATABLE AND YES SHE TOTS THINKS MORIARTY IS HOT OK BYE  
> Thank you for the kudos and comments!


	8. Jane form work.

**_October 25 th, 5:35pm._ **

With a heavy sigh you unlocked the door to your apartment, blinking stupidly when the loud buzz of your phone starts to ring inside your pocket. Tiredly and still mulling over the events that had happened at work – so far the worst day you had ever had whilst working there (and you even found a dead body once!) – you grasped over your jeans for the mobile device, pushing the door open and strolling in. It shut behind you, the lock sliding in with a soft _‘click’_. Setting your bag on your counter you finally took out your phone and glancing at whom was calling you picked up, “Yes?” Your monotone voice echoed in the empty flat. There was no response from the other side, and raising a confused brow you double checked the caller ID: _Jane from work_. “Oi, Jane, can you hear me?”  Still no answer. Thinking she called you by accident you hung up and set your phone on counter and when your eyes landed on the interior of your living room you froze. Something was…off. You looked around. Nothing was out of the ordinary, hell; even the dust on your TV screen was in place.

But it didn’t feel right. A cool shudder ran down yours spine as you felt yourself take a cautious step back. _Someone was here_ , you thought. The idea hit harder than you ever imagined it to, as your already nonexistent sense of privacy and security was completely stripped away. It was as if someone moved all of your stuff by a mere inch just to mess with you. But who would do such a thing? Perhaps you were being paranoid, after all, with all the things that had happened with Moriarty—

“ _Moriarty._ ” His name left your lips in a whisper as your eyes scanned your dimly lit flat one more time, expecting him to jump out and scare you to death at any given moment. _That wouldn’t happen,_ you reassured yourself _, if anyone even was here they were long gone._ Abruptly, you reached for your mobile again, only to stop yourself and glance at the nearest window – what if he was watching you right now? You gulped. You couldn’t call Sherlock even if you damn needed to. If Moriarty really did have his binoculars out to spy on you, he had to see you being independent from Sherlock.

Naturally, he would believe that the first thing angel (Name) would do was call the snobby detective himself! What _else_ could she do? And if she wasn’t on the side of the angels she would let this behavior slide and even play along…Or…would it be the other way around? Would fake (Name) call Sherlock in order to use him, and the angel (Name) would stay put and pretend to be bad to gain Moriarty’s trust?

A bead of sweat rolled down your neck as your thoughts raised a mile a minute. The biggest problem was that all of those options were correct to Moriarty; he could change his mind in a heartbeat if he found something off about you. He was completely unpredictable…A soft frown formed on your features and you looked away from the window.

_Unpredictable? Sly? Good liar? Prideful?..._

“Oh, _oh God_.” You uttered to yourself, grabbing the counter to steady yourself, “Sociopath, of course, sociopath he’s the real deal oh my God…” You licked your dry lips, “That or psychotic, a very fair chance. Not a psychopath, no _no_ , he has this weird thing for Sherlock, no way is he a psychopath but…sociopath, _yes yes, very likely_.” You continued to mumble to yourself as you moved to your bedroom, flicking the light switch on and bolting to your bookcase “How…how does one outlie a liar?...” Your fingers trailed the covers of your impressive book collection until stopping on one particular _“Confessions of a Sociopath_ …Please, oh _please_ have something.” As you pulled it out, only then did you notice a small note lying on your pillow. Your blood ran cold. You were positive you weren’t the one who left it there.

Cautiously, yours fingers grasped the little paper and lifted it up to your eyes; _‘John Doe’_ was all it read. Confused, you re-read that one line again to make sure it wasn’t an anagram or anything like that. Why would Moriarty (you were sure it was him) leave a note that only said ‘John Doe’? John Doe…Jane Doe?

Your eyes widened.

Jane from work _is in big trouble._

Forgetting the book completely you sprinted back to the kitchen. You felt like your heart was about to jump out your throat. With trembling hands you snatched the phone, recalling Jane. You weren’t that surprised when someone on the other side picked up – it was radio silence, though. Straining your ears you tried to catch even a glimpse of where your co-worker could be. The faint honks of cars reached you but other than that nothing. Bitter you hung up. Running a hand through your hair you briefly paced around the kitchenette – no way did that give away any indication on where she was. Even Sherlock couldn’t solve that. Biting your lower lip, you went through your messages and quickly typed out a new one.

 _Consulting psychologist._  
Not detective. What did you do  
to Jane?  
  
[Message to: Library Jim]

Damn, you should really change that name. The reply was instant.

_Yet you seem to have a  
natural talent for it, Lolita._

_[Message from: J.M.]_

_Figures_ , you weren’t getting anything out of him. He was probably enjoying the show. Still, a quick reply from him was surprising. Was he waiting for you to text him first? _This all could be just a trap_ , you pondered, staring at your mobile screen, _Moriarty could just be trying to lure me and Sherlock and then chop us up or…something_. You didn’t even want to finish that thought. You didn’t have any of Jane’s other contacts, so you couldn’t even check up with her family and friends to see if she was alright. You didn’t even have her Facebook.

Time was wasting and you were starting to panic. Unconsciously or not, you found your phone pressed to your ear again. After the third beep, he picked up.

“Hello? (Name)?” John’s voice was pleasant and calm, “I was just about to call you, actually! I was wondering if you’d like to—“

“Don’t be mad.” You squeezed out. The line went quiet.

“Mad?” John chuckled, “Why would I be _mad_ at you, (Name)?” The smile from his face fell as you failed to reply, his tone turning stern, “What happened?”

“Promise you won’t be mad.” You repeated.

“I promise, okay?! Now tell me what it is! _Are you all right_? _Are you safe_? Is someone after you? Should I alert Sherlock?”

“No, no, stay put. Okay, listen.” You took in a deep breath, “Moriarty is after me and I think he kidnapped my friend to-“

“ ** _MORIARTY?!”_** You had to pull your phone way for a moment, “ _THE_ **MORIARTY**? James **MORIARTY?** Why is _JAMES MORIARTY_ after **_YOU_**?!” The line went quiet again, “ ** _SHERLOCK_**! Sherlock what did you do?! Why is _MORIARTY_ after (Name)?!” You could faintly catch Sherlock sighing on the other side,”(Name). You come here _right this instant_ and we will discuss this. Get into a cab and drive _straight here_. _You’re staying with us from now own_. Sherlock I swear to God—“ The line went dead before John could finish.

You were torn. Was going to stay with Sherlock really the best option?

_No, no…Bad idea. Moriarty won’t let this slide._

Maybe it was fate or just sheer dumb luck that made you glance at your purse out of panic. Your eyes caught the sparkling metal of your keys and the bright red key-card poking out. _The hotel._ You nearly tumbled down trying to grab all of your things and in a moment you were out the door.

…

..

…

You were unsure how much time had passed since you completely forgot to keep track of it. You wheezed, resting your hands on your knees and trying to catch your breath as guests and staff alike sent you weird looks in the lobby. Finally, you crawled over to the reception desk as through deep inhales asked if Jane was still working. Your co-worker, one you’ve seen around but never really conversed with, gave you a strange look before typing out something on her computer.

“Yes,” The answer made you sigh relieved. Your legs almost gave out, “she hasn’t left yet. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No…no…” You shook your head, a grin stretching on your face. You leaned away from the desk, “No, thank you, everything is okay…Have…have a good one.” Your last words were riddled with a chuckle as you shook your head in disbelieve and went to take a seat on the plush couches. Your shoulders relaxed once you were comfortable. The heavy perfumed air was making you a bit sick.

 _I’m safe. My friend_  
is safe. I can’t come to you  
for reasons I’m sure you understand.  
Please tell John not to worry.

_[Message to: Snoopy Detective]_

“You look like you ran a mile.”

“To tell the truth, it felt like I did too.” You replied cheerfully with a smile, glancing over the screen of your phone to see who this mysterious conversationalist was. Your voice was caught somewhere in the back of your throat – did you not recognize that accent at first? Perhaps your head was still fuzzy from the sprint. Moriarty was sitting in front of you, causally leaning in his seat in a brand new business suit. He fit in perfectly here. _Was he rich as well?_ Honestly, you hardly knew anything about him. Besides him being a complete sociopath, but that you only found out perhaps an hour prior.

He offered you a small smile as yours dimmed down “Were that in a hurry, _Lolita?_ ”

“Not everyday someone breaks into my flat.” You shot back, “If you wanted to come in all you had to do is ask nicely.”

“Oh, I wasn’t in your flat, darling.” He said, “You aren’t the number one child, I’m afraid. Can’t give you a special visit yet.”

_Of course, he hired someone. Great, rich and evil. Really, really regretting that Sherlock allowed me to do this._

“You’re saying that like I have a chance to climb the ranks.” You pointed out. Moriarty shrugged.

“You were the one who suggested playing.”

 

**_//Meanwhile//_ **

****

John nervously paced around the flat. Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to ignore his flat-mate and that damned cat which you promised to take home but never did. The blasted things fur was getting everywhere.

“Would you stop?” Sherlock finally shot to John, making the man abruptly turn to the laying detective, “Your worrying is giving me a headache.” John had to refrain himself from exploding.

 _“You-What-hmmm_ …” Watson took a deep breath, “ **Moriarty**. _James Moriarty_ , Sherlock, the man who has pulled you on a string—“

“Debatable.”

“—Is now after (Name)!” John finished angrily, “ _Am I the only one who sees a problem in this_? He’s dangerous, Sherlock! Why would you let her help you in this? Do you want her killed?”

“He would’ve gone after her to get to me eventually. She had to take action into her own hands.” Sherlock told bluntly, “Besides, she texted me. She is okay.”

“She should be here!”

“But she isn’t.”

“You know what? Where is she? I’m going to get her and you can’t stop me.” John said, trotting to the door and getting his jacket. Irritated, he turned to Sherlock, “Well? Where is she?”

“…She didn’t say.”

John threw his hands up in the air with an exaggerated sigh, “Didn’t say?! Sherlock she could be kidnapped!”

“(Name) is a smart girl. Give her some credit.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?!”

Sherlock couldn’t answer that question.

 

**_//Back to you//_ **

****

“Don’t get so comfortable, Lolita. Just because good girl Jane is still at work it doesn’t mean she’s safe.

 ** _Game on_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting heated wooohoooo! I just love writing Moriarty he is so precious---  
> Anyway! Sorry for the lack of romance, I just want to set up the plot first. Protective Sherlock and obsessive Moriarty will appear in a couple of chapters, so no worries.  
> All I have to say really. Thank you all for the reads and kudos! <3


	9. Nymphet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quickie note: this whole chapter is in Moriarty's POV....While it is somewhat poetic, I hope it's not too OCC...this is his view of you, though, and you only, so...see you in the other note!

 

[Music.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pk0qEwa5xOs)

 

Moriarty always envied Humbert Humbert. The man from a fictional book seemed to have one talent Moriarty liked to believe him also possessing such a skill, but always failed to use it when he so desperately needed - to catch a nymphet within a first glance. Humbert could do that: out of a sea of people he could easily point out the one girl whose eyes masked a playfully dancing fire with innocents. One whose skin glimmered at day and night, coated in a thin layer of sweat that begged to be caressed, touched and kissed. And a smile…oh yes, the smile, the creases at the corners of her luscious lips that she’d so often bite or toy with, making every man fall for her within a heartbeat.

Moriarty couldn’t do that. He couldn’t tell apart a nymphet from a simple minded human no matter how much he tried. He had to first open them up – see if they were worth his time – before he dubbed them special. It was a hassle, one he usually found entertainment in, but he realized soon that this time it was different. That this time dissecting would take too much time. This time he felt like a mystery would be more…enchanting. He felt himself grow impatient. Why? Why now? Why would he allow someone to carry those secrets he so desperately needed answers to?

His eyes stared you down like a wolf and he watched your expression twitch, trying to remain calm and collected, but your eyes jumped around the lobby like a wounded rabbit. He leaned in, just a bit, hooking his fingers together with an amused smirk playing on his face. Something about you, he thought, something reminded him of those nymphets Humbert always dreamed and boasted about. Something behind your eyes, such a beautiful (color), like a deer caught in the headlights but in the shadows he knew something sinister was lurking. Or perhaps he was just hoping. He saw this pure, small little creature that would eat straight from his palm if that meant gaining his trust. He knew very well you were on the side of the angels – just one mention of your name to Sherlock and he would freeze. Moriarty was clever with puzzles– even if Sherlock wasn’t that special to you, you were sure special to him in some way. But Moriarty didn’t care about it all that much, not now at least.  What he wanted above all else was to draw out that faint playful fire riddled with dark intentions that he knew you could provide.

He wanted to see you fall so hard your wings would break in the process.

“What’s the matter?” He suddenly spoke up, watching as your attention was adverted to him “Cat got your tongue?” He saw you gulp, clear your throat and mask a smile.

“Just thinking of a strategy.” You replied calmly. Moriarty hummed.

“You’re a bad liar.” He conducted, pleased with himself, “Too flimsy. You know, you should step up your game if you want to beat me.”

“Who said I wanted to beat you?”

Moriarty snorted, “Well, why else would you play?”

“I want to become you.”

The answer was not one he was prepared for, but he anticipated something like this. A blissful grin stretched on his face as he felt excitement bubble in his chest – if people weren’t already staring he would’ve jumped up from joy! Such a magnificent reply, marvelous marvelous indeed! Was that determination he saw? Admiration? He doubted it was the later but it was a pretty thought.  You leaned back in your seat, obviously pleased – did you actually think you could fool him? Outsmarted the mastermind? That flimsy hope was something he was willing to give you, his body already aching in anticipation as he longed to tear that soft light into shreds and leave you in a pool of tears. How poetic from his part.

Maybe he has read too many books to even think straight anymore. But to be fair, his mind always had a mind of its own.

“Are you that empty?” He asked, grinning from ear to ear. His voice was low and rich each syllable hiding a smile, “That empty that you must fill yourself with someone else to feel whole? That’s pretty pathetic, Lolita. Or are you shaping yourself in my image to make me trust you? Silly little--”

“No.” The same look in those magnificent eyes of yours flared like fireworks. Your fingers let loose of gripping the cloth on your thighs, your posture relaxing as a knowing smile spread on your reddened lips, “It’s because I admire you, Jim.” There was no fear in your voice, so melodic and quiet it was nearly drowned by the loud buzzing of people around. For a moment everything melted – the room seemed small and cozy, filled with his musky cologne and your fruity perfume. There were only two people in this world – you and him. Your words caressed his ego more than he was willing to admit and perhaps the only genuine grin finally shadowed on his face before he caught himself. You admire him…It wasn’t hard to believe, you had a degree in psychology after all, but still…a lie so sweet made his world light for only a fleeing moment and he found himself at awe. He finally noticed that golden glow around you, that one thing that made you stand up from the crowd.

Though, as soon as he saw it all faded and he was back in that same warm lobby with someone annoyingly tapping his shoulder. His eyes finally fell from you, irritated they looked up to see one of his business partners offering him a twisted smile. The taller man cleared his throat, nervously glancing at you and then back at Moriarty.

“Good to see you, James.” He said. Moriarty’s jaw tensed and feeling anger rise in his chest he had to contain himself from jumping up and possibly breaking that arm that still insisted on touching him, “I didn’t think you’d shown up tonight, you are so busy after all!” He released a dry chuckle. Jim glanced at you. He licked his lips – you were staring again with that same innocent look in your eyes, from time to time they’d leave him and stare at the main entrance and your body would twitch as if saying ‘Now’s the time! Leave, Lolita, leave while you still can!’. But you still sat in your seat, masking content.

“…James?”

“Leave us, Marcus.” Was all Moriarty said, unable to take his eyes away from you, “And take your filthy hand off me.” As if burned, the older man pried away, at loss of words. As if a fish out of water he lingered for a minute before wishing you and Jim a good evening and leaving disappointed.

“James…” You said to yourself as if testing the way your tongue formed his name, “Why did he call you James?” You asked.

“Jim is only for close friends, darling.”

“Are we close friends, then?” You clapped your lashes. Jim rolled his eyes.

“But of course, we are having such a lovely conversation after all.”

“Why don’t you call me by name?” You suddenly asked.

“You don’t like the nickname?” He faked being hurt, his hand touching his heart, “You wound me, Lolita, you really do…” In a second his act was over and he returned to his cheerful self, “I think Lolita suits you better, I already told you. Remember, back at the bookstore when I had the-“ He pointed at the back of his neck, tapping the plain spot a couple of times “gun pointed at you. Don’t tell me you already forgot. Though, I wouldn’t be that surprised, to tell the truth.”

“Where’s Jane?”

“What a segway…!”

“I’m serious, Jim. Where is Jane?”

“You know, if you really want to be like me than you should really loosen up.” He pointed out, leaning in his seat. “Just…” He shrugged, “let her die. What do you care? You two aren’t even friends.” Ah, that’s what he was waiting for: at the mention of death he could practically hear the alarms flaring in your head. Your eyes widened and he could tell you were trying to contain yourself. Watching you is so amusing. That shimmer of fear re-appeared in the once cool gaze, a fire burning so bright Moriarty couldn’t wait any longer: he jumped to his feet, making you  jerk and slowly stand up to follow him. Fixing his suit and making sure to do it deliberately slow to antagonize you further, he cleared his throat and offered a smile – one that had no good intentions in mind. “But if you _reallllllly_ want to see her….Who am I to stop you?” Out of his pocket he took out a key-card and handed it to you, making sure your fingers would brush in the process. Your cheeks were red but he was sure it wasn’t because of him – more like worry and adrenaline. “After you.” He motioned with his hands for you to move and throwing a glare his way you did.

He followed you down the line of corridors, lagging behind just enough to admire your body language – your pace was so rushed sweat was already breaking out your clear skin! Your shoulders so tense…even your throat shook. Were you that worried? Humans…his eyes nearly rolled back to the back of his head. He will never understand their sentimentality.

Once you finally reached the dreaded door you nearly pounced on it, sliding the key-card two times since you missed it the first one. A brief moment of reconsideration and you pushed the door open, falling right in.

Your whole body froze at the scene in front of you and it almost itched for him to see that priceless expression you had. Your footsteps slowed as you approached the bed – that ‘friend’ of yours was still alive, though most likely not for long since the straps around her neck, wrists and ankles were cutting off all circulation. Little by little Jane was turning blue. Moriarty stood behind you and gazed at the woman’s big teary eyes and choked screams for helps with strange satisfaction. He hummed; making you twitch as he rested his head on your shoulder. You froze.

“What do you think?” He questioned, quietly, dangerously. Stiffly, almost mechanically, you tilted your head to him, your lips faintly brushing the side of his cheek and making him grin, “Not quite my style. But my men seem to have a thing for bad bondage porn.” His twinkling irises traveled from your lips to your eyes, locking them in place with such intensity he had to contain himself from grinning any further, “What would your style be, Lolita?” He questioned, curiously, his voice lowering into a whisper. He felt you inhale sharply, your body trembling and almost aching to move away. He admired your determination, but this fearful maiden act was getting old too quick. He felt himself grow bored. Chuckling softly he leaned out, giving you some personal space. You sighed, heavily, taking a step closer to the bed and away from him. Moriarty watched you with fleeing curiosity, about to come up with some strange excuse and leave you, disappointed. That was until you faced him and the whole world stopped turning once again.

“I don’t need to kill to take someone’s breath away, Jim.”

For the first time that evening you said the absolute truth. His interest spiked, the faint golden glow around you flaring as did those foreign playful fires in your beautiful eyes. Moriarty hummed again, extremely pleased with himself. He didn’t need to envy Humbert anymore. Excitement washed over him like a wave and he couldn’t contain that merciless laugh that scared both you and the woman tied up – he found one! He found one! A real life nymphet!

He finally found one and it was this mindless, clumsy angel. Oh, how beautiful, how poetic even! Destroying you will be all the more sweet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god this was fun to write!!! i hope it was fun to read!!! i needed to make Moriarty fall for the reader somehow - obviously she couldnt outsmart him, Sherlock barely could. So I painted her in this poetic light, trying to embody Humberts beloved Lo (but with obviously much darker intentions. and yes moriarty's "love" will be more like a twisted version of it or just strange obsession. nothing sweet haha). Tbh one of my fav chapters, but if you didnt really like it it's ok: only 3 chapters out of ?????? will be written in Moriarty's POV (I will reveal that the next M!POV chapter will be called 'Lo', so look forward to that one if you enjoyed this!)
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for the kind comments and kudos and everything. Sherlock will appear in the next chapter! Thank you all again!


	10. Don't tell.

…

…

…

 

You inhaled sharply, your fingers latching onto the cool railing of the bed to collect your nerves when Moriarty finally shut the door behind him. Your knees shook and hearing a wheezing gasp from Jane you snapped, rushing to her side and freeing her mouth first. Your co-worker trembled frantically, her blue lips moving to say something but failing to release any sound. Your skin was red and boiling hot making you fumble. Quickly working to release her you murmured prayers and curses under your breath. Jane gasped loudly; gulping a big breath of air as her chest heaved up and down when the tight rope around her neck loosened. You then moved to her hands, lastly her feet.

Once you were done you felt yourself grown numb and stumbling you landed on the ground with tears streaming down your cheeks. The whole room shone in bright neon colors making your heard spin. _Must be the stress_ , was one careless whisper in your mind as the rest screaming _‘Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—‘._

“What…” Jane’s raspy voice finally reached you, and lifting your paled face to her you found her both terrified and angry as she rubbed her bloody wrists, the imprints of the leather tainting her skin, “ _What the fuck, (Lastname_ )?” She stuttered, her voice growing mad as her eyes bore into your own murderously. You shook your head.

“I didn’t…” You murmured, “I didn’t know, _please_ , Jane, you _have to believe me_ I didn’t know what he was up to I—“

“I’m-I’m calling the cops—“

“No!” You screeched, latching onto the bed to stop her from moving, “No, _no you can’t, **you can’t**_ —“ you gulped, “You can’t tell anyone. _Please_ , Jane, you must listen to me. He _owns_ the police. He _owns everything_ you **will die** if you do not leave this be—“

“I nearly **did**! Just now!” She fired up, the initial shock finally gone from her twisted face, “And you— _you did nothing!_ **_Nothing_**!”

“I-I _couldn’t do anything while he was around_ , you don’t know him, Jane, _please_ , he’s crazy—“

“You’re just as psycho as he is—“

“No-no, y-you got it all wrong, please, Jane, don’t tell anyone about this!”

 

 

///

 

 

The wailing of police sirens were only but an annoying buzz in your ear as you sniffled, eyes boring into the depths of the warm liquid in your grasp that swirled from your trembling hands. John rubbed your back, a sad, though understanding smile playing on his lips as he gazed at you with love. But before long he glanced at the petty detective staring blankly at you, John’s eyes lighting up with an angry fire as he scoffed. Sherlock raised a brow, irritated.

“ _Happy now_ , Sherlock?” John mumbled. The detective frowned, side-stepping to allow the medics lead Jane. The cool air bit the skin of his face and he released a short sigh, one that was barely audible but shown by white smoke coming out his mouth. Sherlock wanted to reply something witty and he nearly did, but one look at you was enough to make him falter and glance down. Perhaps it was shame that squeezed his heart so tightly, or maybe it was just guilt for putting a friend through this. You weren’t like him, after all. You weren’t nearly as cold and numb to people as he was. John watched his best friend and roommate closely, wanting to nag him further but refrained. He was too worried about you to focus on Sherlock, at least for now.

Suddenly the detective stepped closer and when you didn’t react his gloved hand landed on your shoulder gently. Owlishly, you blinked, your mind a complete mess and (color) eyes that were already filled with salty tears glanced up. Your heart jumped. Seeing Sherlock ‘ _comforting you’_ was the last thing you expected to experience today. He leaned in, but not too close – he was wary, you can tell – his expression hardening as he looked you dead in the eye, “You’re staying with us from now on.” He said in a low tone, his words nearly lost in the yell Lestrade made as he paced to you.

“(Name)!” The policeman hurried to your side, sweat running down his forehead, “ _What in Jove’s name_ happened here?! I got Miss Jane Wick yelling about how you and _‘some-strange-guy’_ tried to kill her, but the hotel staff was swearing _by God_ that you had nothing to do with it! What’s going on?!”

“Quiet, Lestrade.” Sherlock cut in, sending a deadly glare his way. The detective pulled away from you, “I believe (Lastname) has had enough screaming for one day. No reason to add yourself to the list.”

“I was not—…fine.” Lestrade frowned, returning the glare. He then looked at you, “I’m sorry, (Name). I know you had nothing to do with this…At least I hope. I will still have to take you in for questioning, alright?” You nodded, meekly.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Sherlock, I think you should let the police to their job—“

“I _said_ that won’t be necessary.” Sherlock repeated himself, his expression blank. “Listen, Lestrade, I know it may be hard for you to understand but please try to keep up. That man, _the man_ Miss Wick was talking about is **_James Moriarty_**. Familiar, no? I suggest you leave this to us. (Lastname) was at the wrong place at the right time. Merely a bad coincidence.”

“Mo-… ** _The_** Moriarty?!”

“Yes, Lestrade, now please, move along to wherever it is you’re supposed to go when you’re not annoying me.”

**_Same night, 9:35pm._ **

A storm brewed behind the rattling glass window of Sherlock’s flat as he blankly stared into the distance, watching the faint figures of people move quick to find shelter, his hands tightly knit behind his back. You were quiet, sitting by the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, listening to cracking fire and letting the smell of burning wood ease you. You leaned into Sherlock’s favorite seat in the house, your fingers smudging away the shimmer of tears on your eyelid, ruining your mascara in the process. John was out. The two of you were alone.

Slowly, as if afraid his sudden movements would scare you away Sherlock turned his head to you, his cool irises roaming from your trembling lower lip to you fidgeting fingers –even then he still couldn’t tell what you were thinking. On a verge of a panic attack? Yes, but what was in your mind was the biggest mystery, one that he was both eager and cautious to find out. “I call him by name, you know.” Your sudden raspy words pierced the silence, making the detective focus, “Silly me…as if that would help…”

“Especially difficult subjects, such as killers and psychos, respond better and even show remorse or guilt if one always calls them by their real name. Makes them feel human…makes them feel real.” Sherlock paused, “It wasn’t stupid to try, just stupid to hope it will work.”

“You haven’t seen the look in his eyes, Sherlock.”  You told, your eyes boring into the carved leg of the coffee table, “You-…you haven’t seen _them_ , Sherlock. He watched me. Examined me like… _like an animal_. The way he looked at Jane-…nothing.” Your voice toned down into a whisper, “Empty. Void of any emotion. And I knew that’s exactly how he felt. Bored.” A twisted smile curled at the corners of your twitching lips, “ _Bored_.” You repeated, glancing at Sherlock, “He saw a woman being strangled and he was… ** _bored_**.” Sherlock was quick to pace to you, impatiently sitting down and sparing you a somewhat annoyed glare as you were beginning to panic.

“Listen to me, (Name) (Lastname).” His cool hands engulfed yours, making you shiver pleasantly – his touch soon seeped through your skin, making you slowly release the heated breath you were holding. You caught his gaze, almost afraid to look away, “I may have overestimated you. You are but a simple minded human, after all. And there is nothing wrong with that. You’re weak and sentimental. The sooner you realize this the sooner Moriarty can’t use it against you.” His voice was low and smooth though had a note of danger hiding behind it, “And while yes, I am sorry about the mess **I** , _as John would so kindly like to point out_ , put you in, this would’ve happened sooner or later – there was no chance of avoiding him going after you.” He squeezed your hands, “You must not fall apart now, you hear me? Things will get _much worse_ from here on out.”

“…W-…worse…?”

A solemn look passed his features though it didn’t stay for long, “I know Moriarty. To see you fall would be one of his greatest achievements…That is, if you managed to catch his attention. Either way he will stop at nothing to destroy you. Either to harm me, or…or you.” He finished dryly, swiftly letting go and standing up. He started pacing around the room, “Now, if you’d only focus on what’s important, that is how to _win_ against him, you would have an easier time. Try alienating yourself from your family and friends. Even me and John. Without any distractions you will have an easier time staying alive.”

“What-“ he was speaking too fast for you to catch up, “Sherlock, I’m sorry, I- _I can’t_ … _I can’t_ _leave_ my friends and my family behind. I’m…I’m not like you, you said it yourself.” He halted, and then sighed.

“Troublesome girl.” He threw at you, “Now, tell me exactly what had happened. From A to Z leave no details out despite how minor they would seem. We’re playing by Moriarty’s rules now—“

“I just want to be safe, Sherlock.” You cut him off, loudly. Gulping, you glanced away from him, wrapping the blanket around you tighter, “I had _no bloody_ _clue_ what I signed up for and I just… _I need a break_. One night is all I ask…Just _one night_ —“

“One night might be your last.”

“At least then I’d die in peace.” Was your curt reply as you hopped off the armchair and bolted straight to John’s door, shutting the door behind you. For a long while Sherlock stood in place, watching the dust settle where you back retreated to. Deep in thought he hummed. It didn’t take him long to realize that he didn’t exactly know what to do, even if his very first idea was to knock on that door and demand to speak to you once again. Feelings were never his strong suit. Where was John when you needed him most?! Then again, perhaps it was best that Watson wasn’t around…

In the end, he didn’t bother you any further for the rest of the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter this one! Either way, I hope you enjoyed it!  
> So, romance. yes yes yes I know enough character building already, and I promise we'll knit an unbreakable connecion between sherlock and the reader in the next couple of chapters with a healthy dosage of plot. please be patient. it'll be worth the wait <3
> 
> thank you for all the kudos and comments xx  
> till next time!


	11. Sleepless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait everyone! just a set up chapter, nothing major...will return with a new one in hopefully a couple of days...CANT BELIEVE SEASON 4 IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER. ARE YOU READY FOR TEARS? BC I SURE FUCKING AM

_**October 26 th, 6:02am.** _

No matter how much he tried he could not shake the sickening excitement that left him restless for the whole night. Each time he’d close his eyes he would see your beautiful face, though for the life of him could not feel the adoring aura and the strange tingling of his fingertips from your presence. All he could see was an immobilized fraction of you, a cinematographic still, and the feeling he got from it was nothing short but fascination. He flashed his eyes open, staring into the depths of the ceiling. The room was dark. He grinned. It has been so long, so very long a simple human had caused him so much joy. And you! Of all people, _you_! He understood why Sherlock would pick his interest: Holmes was as keen as he was intelligent. You...Who would have thought such a gracious picture of a nymphet hid somewhere in the core of your very being? Who knew the name ‘ _Lolita’_ would suit you better than he had ever intended it to? It was just a name, a silly joke to make you fall for him and burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, but instead you seemed to flourish and bathe in the sunrays that shone on your form with each step you took. You infatuated and disgusted him at the same time. A feeling so tight would grip his chest from the mere thought of either strangling you or gently kissing you on the cheek that he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. But this was not love he was feeling or anything close. He wasn’t yet sure how to describe it and frankly he didn’t exactly care at the moment. A new wave of energy hit him hard and Moriarty halted upwards, snatching his phone and eagerly typing out a message. It wasn’t long before you replied, and before he knew it he was out of bed and ready to get dressed.

_**Same night, 5:16am.** _

Sherlock didn’t dare to bother you, but it mattered little in the end – you were on a mission to bother him or anyone really. You thought that being alone would help you lick your freshly made wounds from the evening, but all it did was poison your thoughts with guilt and shame and all you could do was blame yourself more and more. It wasn’t healthy, you had conducted for the sixteenth time that sleepless night, and running a shivering hand through your messy hair you slowly stood up and walked out of Watsons room. John wasn’t back yet, his date turned out to be more successful than both you and him imagined (he did profusely apologize for not being there for you and promised to make it up with ice-cream and a good movie), and feeling both anxious and excited you raised your hand to knock on Sherlock’s bedroom door. You took a deep breath.

The door creaked open making you blink stupidly as your eyes connected with weary ones on the other end, “Tired of sleeping?” Sherlock asked quietly, as if afraid to wake the house up. You managed to squeeze on pained smile.

“Sleep is the last thing on my mind, to be honest…” You replied just as quiet. Sherlock motioned with his head for you to come in – you were pleasantly surprised that he didn’t order to do so harshly – and softly shut the door when you entered his very own room. You haven’t been here yet –as to be expected it was plain. Without much thought you sat on his bed as realization hit you – should you explain why are you here? Did you even know yourself? Sherlock didn’t seem to mind you occupying his mattress. He sat down next to you, his presence offering pleasant heat in the already warm room.

“…do you mind if I--?”

“Not in particular, no.” Was his curt reply. His voice held a certain tone in it – raspy, husky even – and you felt yourself grow hot. He tilted his head to the side, hooking his fingers together and examining your face with a thoughtful expression. It was nowhere near the same look Moriarty gazed at you with. Sherlock’s was gentle but precise, an interesting math equation that was written all over your features. “You’re afraid.” It was an easy observation and you didn’t even try to deny it. You nodded. He hummed. “What’s in your bedroom?” The sudden question knocked out any growing ideas of touching his hair or just lean closer. You gulped, glancing away.

“Nothing.” You replied.

“Then why were you so desperate to keep me out?”

You inhaled.

“I don’t like people in my bedroom. Especially strangers. It’s just a pet peeve of mine.” You explained, “And about the bathroom…The lock is broken. It opens by itself so I see no point in closing it.” A small smile slit on your lips, “Sorry if you imagined something complex, which I bet you did.” You looked at him, “You always like to make everything so clever, Sherlock.”

There you were again, with that soft though snarky voice that made him question his own mind for playing tricks on him. The things you’d say  eerily reminded him of Moriarty – the same sparkle of mischief and even arrogance sometimes shimmered behind your brilliant iris, the things you’d often point out or even your mannerisms, aloof, but well thought out. Or was he making it all ‘clever’ again? Sherlock’s stare hardened, “I cannot figure you out…” It felt more like he was talking to himself, than to you, and taken aback you leaned out when his face appeared too close.

“I-… _what_?”

“People have intentions. Those intentions are written all over their faces, clothes, the things they touch. Deep dark secrets and other emphatic nonsense I don’t have trouble figuring out but _you_. _You_ have nothing. Why do you have nothing?”

“Maybe it’s because I have no intentions.” You told, bitter, “You see nothing _because I have nothing_ , Sherlock. I am not special. _I’m a mess_. I almost got my co-worker killed because I decided to play a stupid game with a psychopath, or sociopath or I don’t even know anymore _!_ ”

“But you are.” He told, lowly, “You _are_ special. He hasn’t killed you yet.” You faltered.

“If in the end it’s either me or my friends, family…I’d rather he’d just finish me and be done with it. I can’t hurt people, Sherlock. I can’t. I can’t even…hurt that monster of a human. I’m just so…”

“ _Human_. How many times must I repeat that? You are human.  A very brave and kind one at that.”

“--and stupid.”

“I never said you were perfect.” He retorted. You almost grinned. “But that’s how you will beat him. By being you.”

The loud wailing of your phone interrupted any surfacing thought he had had previously, making him draw a blank when he saw those magnificent eyes widen with fright. In turn his muscles tensed, a strange, alien feeling grasping ahold of his sides as he snapped his head to his closed bedroom door with a frown. Was he being protective? How silly, he conducted; swallowing down those pesky emotions that made him act irrational. It was just like when Moriarty mentioned your name o so casually: Sherlock clearly recalled how his whole world flipped upside down and he nearly said something he definitely should not have. His own words rung in his ears ‘ _Don’t touch her’_. Moriarty would have had a field day hearing this. But Sherlock was no idiot. He knew that James could read all of that from his expression.

A second passed as his mind raised a mile a minute. Just as you were about you speak up Sherlock turned back to you, his expression stiff and tone cool, “Know anyone who likes texting at 6 in the morning?” Your throat felt like sandpaper, fingers clamping over with sweat. You exhaled a curt breath, it riddled with anxiety as the tip of your tongue pressed to the inside of your teeth.

“I think we both know the answer to that, Sherlock.”

“Do you want me to get it?” You shook your head.

“No…no I’ll get it myself…” You stood up slowly, your bones and head aching from exhaustion. The room spun a little before falling into place and you paced to the door cautiously as if Moriarty was hiding behind a corner, waiting to jump you. You listened intently just in case, but hearing nothing you proceeded forward.

Once you did hold your phone in your hands you pressed the unlock button, your eyes hurting from the bright light of your mobile phone.

 

> _Don’t you just hate getting up for work_  
>  in the morning?! I know I do!  
>  Pick a bridge that goes KA-BOOM! Or I  
>  will pick one for you and make sure no  
>  one gets out alive.  
>  [Message From: J.M.]

“S-Sherlock!”

Your shoulder shook when a new message popped up.

 

> _Waky waky eggs and baky! Don’t keep me  
>  waiting, darling. Time’s ticking.  
>  [Message From: J.M.]_


	12. Ka-Boom!

Roughly fifteen minutes later you smacked the cars door shut and found the most comfortable position in the plushy leather seat. Your eyes then travelled to the front, falling wide at the blankly smiling face before you turned to Sherlock, “You called… _him_?”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss (Lastname). Brother.” Mycroft said, the car jolting out of place and making you jerk back.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock blurred, “Of course I called him. Who else would I call? John? I do believe he is preoccupied with a woman at the moment.”

“What exactly _is_ going on?” Mycroft asked, before turning to his driver and ordering him to press forward faster.

“Moriarty.” Was the only thing Sherlock said. Mycroft’s piercing gaze went from your disheveled form to Sherlock.  You nervously glanced at your phone. Radio silence.

“And what is he up to this early?”

“He said to pick a bridge.” You spoke up, “He wants to blow one up.”

“Any bridge?”

“Hardly that easy.” Sherlock interjected. “No, he is up to something. If we could pick any bridge we’d pick an empty one, obviously, or some far away in the forest. He said to just pick one, didn’t specify what kind should it be. No, my guess is he wants us to go to a specific one”

“Is that why we’re heading to Philsprea Avenue?”

“Phislprea Avenue?”

“Oh, I see Sherlock failed to mention a few details,” the older Holmes said, pleased, “Philsprea Avenue is exactly twenty miles and roughly an hour away in this traffic and is directly across the St. Nicol bridge that leads to Vic Incorporated, ten story building of a small pharmaceutical company in which two people on Moriarty’s death list are working at. I assume Miss Folk, the alive one that is, will be heading there in exactly,” Mycroft’s eyes flickered to the expensive watch on his wrist, “Thirty minutes.”

“What are you? google maps?” Sherlock mocked. Mycroft grinned.

“ _Yes_.”

“So you think that that’s the one? That’s the bridge?” You leaned out your seat, looking at the older and younger Holmes then back.

“Moriarty will pick this one if we don’t.” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone. For a moment he idled with it, pulling up a message and showing it to you. The same ‘ _Hello Sherlock’_ message in a list of names that had numbers attached to them. Time, most likely, but it never specified was it _pm_ or _am_. “If we are correct about this, and we are, we have about—“

“-Forty minutes.” Mycroft finished. Sherlock glared.

“Should I text him, then?” You asked.

“He already knows which one we picked. He has to by your silence. If you text him now he may blow it up sooner.”

“ _Yeah_ , and, how exactly do we stop him from _blowing_ the bridge up in the first place?” The brothers shared a look at your words, and nervously you added, “ _Please_ tell me you have a plan.”

“I believe my little brother is… _too_ soft to say this, so I will.” Mycroft turned to you, his gaze made you feel confined and uncomfortable. It felt as if he could see right through you, “As I know, Moriarty has taken a sort of… _interest_ in you.” He told, skeptical, “You will have to distract him. Perhaps call him in for a coffee date, or whatever is it you do, Miss (Lastname). Keep him preoccupied. I’m sure you’ll manage to do that quite nicely. “You stared, your mouth falling agape. For a moment you were frozen. “ _Oh_ , don’t ask how. The less we stick our noses in the more natural you will appear.” The car suddenly stopped. You blinked, “Leave the rest to me and Sherlock—“

“And what if he doesn’t want to come out and play?” You cut him off and he did not seem pleased by it.

“I am certain he will.” Mycroft told coolly, “We have little time to waste.” It was his polite way of saying for you to get out his car and you nodded, sending one last glance to Sherlock – he wasn’t looking at you, instead plainly staring out the window as if this conversation wasn’t even happening. Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the opener, “Good luck, Miss (Lastname).” Mycroft suddenly said, “ _You’ll need it_.”

You stood on the pavement, watching the slick black car drive past and get lost further ways down the street. The sky, irritated with clouds, darkened and  so did your vision – only then did you finally snap out of it catch your breath, stepping aside so a man rushing to work wouldn’t crash into you. It was busy, as if a sea of people and children suddenly falling into rhythm and flooding the street. You moved closer to the opening shops. You found your reflection in the tall window, not caring that a caterer from within could see you, you examined your appearance – the bags underneath your eyes didn’t add any beauty, but that hardly mattered. Fixing your hair you conducted you look decent enough.

> _Let’s talk it over._  
>  Meet me at Privet st. 114.  
>  Here’s a lovely café here, just opened.  
>  I’ll be waiting.
> 
> _[To: J.M.]_

You pushed your phone back into your pocket and stalked to the only place that had an ‘ _Open_!’ sign. The bell chimed as you walked in, pleasantly surprised that you weren’t the only one looking for a drink this early – the line was nearly across the whole small shop, a couple of tables free by the window and deciding to let the stream of people through you plopped down and sighed, heavily, your palms hiding your tired face. You inhaled the sweet scent of freshly baked goods as a whiff of bitter coffee settled in the warm air. You the sighed, your throat shaking as you did as your nerves started to crack with a sudden sputter of your heart. You stared out the window watching faces blur. The bell kept chiming, a sudden draft picking at your shoulders ever so often as you patiently waited for Moriarty to show up, but you weren’t even sure if he would.

“Rough morning?” The voice was gentle, Irish and low. You didn’t jerk, didn’t fall into panic – perhaps you were simply too tired. Tilting your head softly to the side your eyes rolled upwards to greet a familiar face of the man you’ve been waiting for for…who knew how long. You gave him a pained, fake smile, your gaze then dropping to the two cups in his hands, “Hope you haven’t had your morning coffee yet, Lo.” He told casually – he was missing a suit too. He almost looked like that shy Jim you met in the library, and for a fleeing moment a sense of security hugged you like an old friend. It felt like you agreed to that one coffee date library Jim had asked you to go on. That the events which took place a day ago, a week ago, never happened. That they were only yet to happen. As your fingers hooked around the paper cup they burned, but you didn’t pull away, instead quietly watching him sit down in front of you with a happy smile. “I don’t know what you like, so I got you a latte.” When you failed to respond, he continued, “Your text was pretty cryptic. Almost didn’t go b _uuuuuu_ **t** ” he popped the ‘ _t_ ’, “how can I say no to you?”

You released an unamused huff of air, shaking your head softly, “You talk to me about cryptic texts? Your _’ka-boom’_ one wasn’t very clear either.”

Jim shrugged, “It was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?”

“I liked the ‘ _waky waky’_ part, though.”

“You didn’t really need to wake up, though, did you?” Jim asked with a smile, his cool irises roaming around your upper body as if to closely examine it, before stopping at your face, “I say you were awake all night. Don’t tell me—“ he leaned in, “thoughts of **_me_** kept you awake? _DON’T_ answer that! I’m a man, after all. You’d _kill_ me.”

“Your death is the last thing on my wish list, Jim.” You told casually, blowing on your drink, “So I will keep my nightly dreams to myself.” Moriarty grinned, “Speaking of wish lists…The death list you sent Sherlock sure scared him.”

“ _Psshh!_ ” Jim threw his head back, “Sherlock! _Boooooring_. Let’s talk about something else. Have you picked a bridge?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Do I look like a mind reader, little Lo? C’mon then, don’t be shy. Tell me which one goes _bye bye_.” Jim leaned back, seeming pleased, “See that? It rhymed! There I go again! _Oh,_ this is so much fun! Are you having fun? If all coffee dates are this exciting we should go on more, little Lo.”

“Name the time and day and I’m all yours.” A smile twitched on your lips, though you swallowed it down, “And to answer your previous question…” your eyes wandered to a bloke a couple of seats away, tiredly staring at his computer screen and sipping on a hot caffeinated drink, “I have.” Sharply, you snapped back at him, “The bridge from Philsprea Avenue.” His smile dimmed and yours rose along with a carefully manicured brow as if to challenge him, “No particular reason.”

Moriarty stayed quiet for a long while, again back to examining you, but strangely enough you didn’t feel nervous. You trusted Sherlock. You trusted him to make it in time. Moriarty scoffed and you blinked, your demeanor falling when disappointed he turned to stare at out window, “What a boring answer. I expected more from you, little Lo… You’d think Sherlock was sitting across from me, not you. Pick another.”

“You told me to pick one—“

“ _Well now I’m telling you to **pick another**_.”

His aura shifted from sweet and playful to cold and dangerous, your fingertips numbing as the look in his eyes was a deep dark forest void of any empathy he has shown prior. He was still leaned back, appearing casual to any onlookers but you knew there and then that that was Moriarty’s true face. Angry and cold, his tone chilling; it sent a fearful shudder down your spine and yet you still felt at awe – just how much power can a lone person have? How predatory was this man sitting across the table from you? It was a mixture of perverse fascination and utter terror. You caught yourself before you could drop down the rabbit hole. Clearing your dry through you felt bitterness rise and hurriedly you searched your mind for another bridge. Luck shone on you as your eyes caught one on the other side of the street – in the park there was a children’s playground, one having a plastic plank connecting one tower to another. The said place was vacant of any lifeforms.

With a smile tilting the corners of your lips you looked back at Moriarty, determination flaring up in you like a firework as hastily you held his cool gaze, “ _That one_.” You motioned with your head, “Across the street. The green one.” For a moment you thought he’d burst into a fit of anger but what he did was laugh loudly, so that the whole café turned to stare.

“ _See! Much better_ , little Lo. I knew you had it in you.” Wiping away imaginary tears he took out his phone with a sniffle, his voice still riddled with giggles, “The green one it is.” He added, typing something furiously. Once he finished, he turned to you, “Shall we go get a closer look?” It wasn’t exactly a suggestion you could say ‘ _no’_ to and nodding you lifted yourself from your seat along with your cup of coffee. Jim was the first to leave and you followed close behind.

The park seemed to isolate some sound from the busy street as tall trees shielded you from pollution. The air was somewhat clear, wet even. The two of you, falling into step, paced on the pavement leisurely – Moriarty seemed to enjoy the casualness of this whole ordeal and you faked content as well. He inhaled, greedily, his shoulders slumping as he closed his eyes for a moment in bliss.

“ _Ah_ , smell _that_ , little Lo?” The new nickname was still throwing you off a bit, but you didn’t show it.

“The fresh air?”

“ _Gunpowder_.” He clarified, his voice dipping and sending a foreign quiver up your spine. You blinked, confused. Moriarty stopped feet away from the playground, one hand grasping the cup whilst the other sat lazily in his pocket, “Do you want to do it?” He asked, swaying on his feet “Or… _me_? _Ladies choice_.” He told with a smile. Your fingers trembled as you extended your hand. His grin only seemed to widen, as swiftly he took out his phone, fiddled again and gave it to you. On the touch screen there was a big red button displayed, nothing else. Your gaze went from it to the man next to you and back, “On the count of three, little Lo. One….Two… **Three!** ”

“ _Ka-Boom_.”

You pressed the button.

You watched from afar as a roaring bright red flame shot through the flimsy plastic, erupting into a ball of ash and disgusting smoke as it engulfed the whole playground with a loud ‘ _bang_!’. People around started to scream; wailing of sirens echoed far _far_ away. The playful colors of red and orange fire reflected on your oily skin, in your dilated strained irises that could do nothing but stare in shock as the fire started to spread, the fumes choking you – or was it the guilt of your own actions? A rough hand pulled on your wrist and you were led away, inhaling sharply and coughing when the harsh smoke cut the inside of your throat. The loud cracking make your ears sting and with your heart about to jump out your chest you dropped the coffee and almost let his phone slip out of your numb fingers.

Moriarty pulled you to the very edge and away from the explosion that you still stared at unable to look away. Once he stopped, he pulled harshly and slowly you finally met his gaze – it was unreadable, his expression hard and his jaw was tensed so that you could see he was holding back a grimace. And then he grinned, brighter than the fire reflecting on the side of his face. His fingers gently snaked into your palm and grasped the phone, waving it at your side but you hardly noticed.

“You’re a natural, little Lo. Daddy is very proud.” His words were low and playful; eyes glimmering with mischievous sparks like fairy lights. Whether it was the heat from the flames or from the proximity you stood from him, but you felt your bones set ablaze and your reaction showed it. His seemed to mimic yours – his face hardened again, eyes boring into your own as his pupils turned pitch black whilst his already dark iris turned espresso like. A slow, wolfish smile slit on his lips as he carefully examined your features before stopping at your lips. He then travelled to lock your gaze again.

“ _Funny_ , isn’t it? How I can tell what you’re thinking just by the look on your face.”

“Dilated pupils are a way to show _disgust_ , James.” You spat. Moriarty tilted his head, softly, his grip tightening ever so slightly just to remind you that he was still holding on.

“But th _aaat_ ’s not what you’re feeling.” He told. You had enough comprehension to form a questioning look on your face and his smile widened. “Because I took your pulse.”

Your wrist was left cold and bruised and you wanted to take a step back to catch your breath but couldn’t. Your skin prickled at his worlds, his gaze confining you and making it impossible to move.

“Then you and I aren’t so different after all.”

Moriarty clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and threw his head back in exaggeration, successfully getting rid of the tension and you released a soft breath, taking a cautious step back. The firefighters finally arrived, their loud sirens making your ears hurt and you flinched, looking away from him for the briefest of moments.

“I believe this calls for a second date, Lolita.” His voice was almost lost in the noise, “I’ll text you when I’m free. Perhaps then you can _blow…something else up_.” With a wink and a pleased smile, he parted and turned to leave. You watched his retreating back get lost behind the sea of spectators that came to ogle at the sky reaching flames. Finally you came to join them, mixing into a group of gasping people and blankly staring at those bright blue and red lights.

 _He was right_ , you came to realize, your cheeks flaming up as your heart spurred, he seemed to have a strange effect on you, as you had one on him as well. God knows was that a good thing or not.

You smiled, but then caught yourself. Why were you smiling? You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t.

But you did anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfc i was literally working on this the whole day, haha! hope y'all like it!  
> watched the first ep of season 4 yesterday. was waiting for precious moriarty to show up with bated breath but he never did //sigh  
> also, i have no FUCKING clue what's going on in the first ep, but i'm sure that we can;t take everything at face value. the whole 'john cheating' thing just rubs me the wrong way. too occ. like bad fanfiction. i think it was a dream or something, idk, but i cant just believe john would do that.  
> anyway, hope you enjoyed! the reader is finally starting to develop some feels  
> until next time xx


	13. Another one bites the dust/Lo

_“Then it is safe to assume you don’t trust me.”_

_He said nothing, only smiled that menacing grin as his dark gaze gleamed, his head tilting higher to show his superiority, “You see, Miss (Lastname), I personally don’t hold any grudge against you. On the contrary, riddle me impressed by how you…seem to pick the interest of men who specialize in making our lives miserable. Sherlock included, of course. But my little brother is mine to pick on and mine alone. So know if you are planning something, something I may not like, I will make sure certain consequences are dealt.”_

_“Is that a threat?”_

_“Threats are for those who lack power. What I give you, Miss (Lastname), is my word.”_

**_November 5 th, 10:53 am,_ **

A melancholic wailing of the violin was heard from downstairs, and although muffled, the melody sparked a strange conflicted flame in anyone who heard it. Your breath hitched on a particularly high note, the warm cup in your hands burning the inside of your palm as your eyes glazed upwards; leaning onto the railing you caught a glimpse of the closed door. Mrs. Hudson shuffled past you. Her shoulders jerked once the melody struck again wish such intensity that it made your skin prickle. The landlady followed your gaze with worried frown pulling on her old face as she gently approached you.

“He’s been at it for days…” She murmured, sadly, “I think there might something be wrong with him this time…”

“I…” you voice came out hollow, unfocused, as only after a moment did you compose yourself and turn away from the door, “I noticed.” You told, “After the…” You eyed the swirling hot tea in your cup, mulling over your words before you let them slip, “After Miss Folk’s tragic… _demise_.”

“ _Oh_ , (Name), would you _please_ go talk to him? He’s obviously upset!”

“I tried, Mrs. Hudson…” You said, “He told me to get out. Said I distract him _... Hasn’t spoken a word since_ …” You added, quieter.

“ _Oh_ , that boy! As stubborn as ever…” She huffed, though hardly offended. Crossing her arms over her chest she leaned in, “You know…between you and me I say it has more to do with you than the death of that poor girl.” Confused, you continued to listen. Mrs. Hudson watched your expression carefully, “You know how he is, (Name).” With a sympathetic smile, her hand landed on your shoulder, “Sherlock won’t come to you. You have to go to him…” Her kind eyes averted back upstairs, “And he _really_ needs you right now.” Squeezing it gently, and with one last small smile, she stepped down the stairs and made her way back to the kitchen. You gulped.

_“…you…seem to pick the interest of men who specialize in making our lives miserable. Sherlock included, of course”_

In the end it mattered very little which bridge you picked. Elizabeth ‘Lizzy’ Folk was found dead six minutes after the playground went in flames. On the exact time which was provided in the message.

The fake sense of security…Almost the same as placing a gun in ones hands and telling them to shoot anywhere – wall, floor, roof – and the others live, knowing full well that before one can pull the trigger it will be yanked away from them. The power Moriarty gave you was nothing but a twisted illusion. And to think he even sparked such strange feelings--!

“ _No_.” The words left your lips in a heated breath before you could catch them, and blinking yourself awake you straightened your back and with careful steps you approached the upper floor. You will not linger on Moriarty any longer.

The music didn’t stop, even after you pried the door open and cautiously passed the threshold – Sherlock’s back was facing you, staring out the window he made no move to acknowledge you and only continued to play. From downstairs you heard John greet Mrs. Hudson – so he was finally back – heavy footfalls falling behind you. The melody came to a screeching halt and you jerked, watching as almost mechanically Sherlock lowered the violin and turned to look at you. His expression was unreadable, green eyes unkind and guarded.

“ _Out_. Get out. I can’t focus if you’re around, (Lastname).”

Your eyes widened in surprise, and offended you growled, _“(Lastname)_? Since when am _I (Lastname_ )? Have we dropped the first name basis already?”

“What’s going on here?” John said behind you, poking his head out through the door.

“ _Finally_. Where were you?” Sherlock seemed to ignore your statement, instead focusing on his flat mate.

“… _Me_?” John pointed at himself, “You…you actually _noticed_ that I was gone?”

“ _Of course_ I noticed.” Sherlock glared, “There was no one to nag about the cat.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear – behind Sherlock’s favorite armchair came a meow and soon trotted a small fluffy creature with a joyous squeak once it noticed you. Your expression softened, the corners of your lips tilting into a smile as you eyed the kitten with a black patch of fur around his iris. His name was Pirate – you thought the name was only appropriate. That expression fell all too soon as out of the corner of your eye you noted Sherlock examine you carefully, and flashing him a glare you stalked to the kitten and picked him up, “Like it or not _, I_ live here too now. On _your_ orders, mind you.” You spat, “And if you want me to leave then just tell me, _Holmes_ , because I will not be treated like Lestrade.” With a furious glint in your (colour) iris you spun on your heel and with the kitten pushed close to your chest trotted down the short hallway and opened the door to John’s room.

“(Name), wai—“ the door was threw shut. John sighed, heavily, turning to Sherlock, “ _Happy_?”

“Oh, don’t patronize me. I told her not to get in my way.”

“… _You know--…_ What is it with you? One minute you send me a text and pace around worried— _yes_ , I know you were worried so _do not_ give me that look Sherlock—and the next you’re acting like…” John threw his hands up, motioning to Sherlock’s tall figure as if trying to wordlessly convey his point, “A royal ass. So what is? Are you upset about Miss Folk? I get that, _really_ , but that was _not_ (Name)’s fault. Last time I checked you were the one who talked her into this and she did all she could to help you.”

“For the love of— _Please_ , _don’t_ start with this again.”

“No. _No_ we are having this conversation right now.” John told, determined, “You are my friend, Sherlock, and I get you like to keep some things to yourself, but frankly, right now, _at this moment,_ I am very _very_ disappointed in you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh, “ _You_ roped her into this. _Remember_?”

_“She agreed.”_

“… _’She agreed’_? Sherlock— ** _Of course_** she agreed! She wanted to help you! How do you think (Name) feels, _huh_? You think it’s easy to have a ‘ _coffee date_ ’ with _JAMES MORIARTY_ and pray he doesn’t blow her and her family up? Do you think it’s _fun_ for her? Honestly, Sherlock, I thought the incident in the hotel would shake some sense into you bu—“

“ _It’s not that_.” Sherlock cut in, faltering the next second as he turned away from John. “It’s not that.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m not angry at her, John, so please keep your moralizing speeches and monologues to yourself.”

“…Oh, _oh of course you aren’t mad_ , sorry, I wonder how did I not notice.” John said with an amused huff. Silence. “ _Well_? What is it then?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You _don’t know_?”

“Yes.”

“…Are you making fun of me?”

“What?- _No_. You asked me for an honest answer and that is what I’m giving you. I don’t know.”

“So you ignore her for the better part of the week because… _you don’t know_? Sherlock that is childish, even by your standards.”

“She’s distracting.”

“How is she any more distracting than she normally— ** _Oh_**.” A sudden realization came over John along with an amazed grin; the sudden shift in tone made Sherlock snap to his best friend and narrowing his eyes at him.

“ _What_?”

“Sherlock…” John started slowly, as if afraid to startle him, though still grinning, “Could the reason possibly be that you li—“ His speech was cut off by the sudden jolt of his bedrooms door that was yanked open, a frantic you rushing to them.

“Did you get it?” You asked, your gaze going from Sherlock to John and back, “The message?”

“I’m assuming it’s from a mutual friend of ours?”

You nodded, “ _Tick-Tock. Another one bites the dust_.”

 

**_Same day, 11:03 am._ **

****

Sherlock paced back and forth with his hands tucked behind his back, expression blank though his eyes were fixated somewhere far beyond your reach. You sat on the sofa whilst John twitched in his armchair, fiddling with his fingers and humming ever so often – his nerves were starting to crack, you could tell. The kitten meowed behind the closed door of Watson’s bedroom. Besides that, the flat was quiet.

“… _W_ -…Who’s next?”

“Oswin Oswald. 03:45.” came Sherlock’s monotone voice, “And then Sara Jane. 04:00.”

“Oh Jesus--…”

“’ _Another one bites the dust’_ …” You murmured, glancing down at the bright screen of your phone, “could he be referring _Queens_ song?”

“May be a clue. A place where they are held _. ‘Another one bites the dust’_ was first performed in _The Game Tour_ in 1980 all around the world. Here in England, however, only two places. That is to say if Moriarty is referring to when it was first heard, not fourth or fifth, like the people in his list. Either way it can’t be that easy…It never is with him.”

“One in _Wembley arena_ and the other in the _National Exhibition Centre_.” You pipped up. Sherlock glanced at you, suspicious.

“How did you know that?”

“Google.”

“…Either way we have two cities – Birmingham and London. Miss Oswald and Jane may be together, or in separate ones. Both cities are quite a stretch from each other. Then again, there is always the possibility that they are in neighter... _hmm_.”

“This is about the time you conjure a brilliant plan, Sherlock.” John pressed. Sherlock frowned, bringing his fingers to his lips as he inhaled deeply and tried to think of a strategy. Rather than looking focused, however, he simply seemed annoyed.

“(Lastname). Leave.”

“ _What_?”  You blurred.

“Must I repeat twice? Your presence distracts me. _Leave_. And before you say anything John, I’m doing this for the case.”

John was about to argue, but with consideration he lastly looked at you utterly defeated. He offered an apologetic smile whilst all you could do was release a shocked meek of protest. The feeling was similar to being slapped in the face – granted, not that you know what that would feel like, but you guessed it was close to this. With a curt nod you finally stood up, trying to process on what were you going to do now.

“Fine.” You told, “ _Fine_. Have it your way, Sherlock. If you want me off, I’ll leave you to it.” You fiddled with your phone, “Text me if…if you need anything. I think I’ll go pick up the last few things from _my_ …my flat _. Since I apparently have nothing better to do._ ” Your throat shook as you took in a calming breath of cool air, “Good luck.”

 

**_November 6 th, 03:46am._ **

****

Of course it was never that simple with James Moriarty.

The said man sighed, tired, rubbing his eyes before he plucked the key into the lock and turned it a few times hastily; the cool morning air bit on his skin, dying it red. His dream like state, influenced by the need for sleep no doubt, left him blind for a moment but once the door slowly pried open with but a silent croak he was set back to reality and stalked into the flat. The door shut with silent click. The glimmering silver key was lost in his pocket.

Warm here, not too hot nor too cold, just perfect – through the darkness he caught a faint swirl of a curtain and guessed the light breeze was pooling in from outside the window. With another somewhat tired sigh he shook off his coat and hanged it on the hanger, careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t flicker the lights on either. There was something oddly comforting about this bleak darkness: the contours of the whole house blurred into one big pile of nothing and created a sensation of floating. Rolling his shoulders he loosened his tie and stalked to the bedroom. A faint whiff of coffee, dust and perfume hit his nose.

As he stepped into the bedroom he didn’t even spare a glance to the bed. Instead he silently sunk his feet into the soft carpet, his blank gaze roaming around the small space as if to inspect it. Behind the window faint lights shone through and landed on a cluttered table to which his gaze soon fell. Driven by curiosity an almost pleased smiled graced his lips as he traced the outlines of books: Oscar Wilde, Franz Kafka, and of course, Vladimir Nabokov. A copy of ‘ _Lolita’_ laid peacefully on the mess of notebooks and unreadable scribbles of words. A light layer of dust coated his finger as he caressed the surfaced of the bind leather book.

James Moriarty didn’t care about whom dies: Sara Jane or Oswin Oswald. Both could burn for all he cared. And he knew so well it was nearly too easy what Sherlock would do. He didn’t want him at two places at once…

Moriarty wanted Sherlock away from you.

He hummed softly, smiling just as timid, as his ears finally focused on the even and rhythmical breathing of the figure lying in bed. He couldn’t see you clearly, and for a while he just stood there, trying to map out your features before he proceeded closer. He found you so peaceful, so beautiful that it reminded him one of Michelangelo’s paintings. Free, without a care in the world…Sherlock would find this sight relaxing, perhaps even happy, but…Moriarty hated it. He hated you being this quiet. The only reason why he took interest in you in the first place was because you were witty and at least tried to keep up with him, not some animated, doll like creature. A faceless _ordinary_ human. That’s what you turned into every night? There wasn’t even a shadow of the nymphet he saw that long ago! Oh he still recalled the feeling, the morbid fascination of your unexplored depths but now…That same feeling like a wave rippled through him but reached shore too slow, losing the essence, the power and the aesthetical magnificence of the rough sea. His jaw locked. He almost felt like throwing a fit.

Perhaps you felt him staring so intently and with a low groan you lazily flipped on your other shoulder, pressing the hot sheets closer to your body. He wanted to wake you up, he wanted you to see him, he wanted you to lose your damn mind when he whispers ‘ _Boo_!’ and you scream in terror, he wanted to see you distraught, not…Not _peaceful,_ he wanted to see you---

 _No_. His mind rushed too fast to keep up, a clear lack of rest on his part, and cracking his neck he peered over your shoulder and for a moment admired your face. You won’t escape him, not even in your dreams. His lips pried open an a hot whirl of breath tickled your neck, slowly Moriarty’s lips travelled to your ear, “L _ooooo_ lita” he murmured, his voice husky and low, “can you hear me?” the reply, though non-verbal, was instant – the tick of your left brow indicated that subconsciously you were storing every bit of information he was willing to provide, “I recon you find yourself now in a big b _iiii_ g palace on the top of the tower. Like a fairy-tale. You like fairy-tales, don’t you, Lolita? Let me tell you one. This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain, and some of them began to wonder, "Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?" Oh no. So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said, "I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories. He's just a big, old liar who makes things up to make himself look good." And then, even the king began to wonder, but that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problems. No. That wasn't the final problem. Now up on that tower was somewhere Sir Boast-a-lot couldn’t reach…He _never_ stopped trying. Always chasing after that dragon, trying his very best to slay it to capture the maidens heart…but what he didn’t know is that she would _burn_ his if he came too close, because hers already belonged to someone else.... No one lived happily ever after. _The end_.”

 

**_Same day, 9:02 am._ **

 

Daylight streamed through a crack in the curtains and you hummed lazily, fluffing your eyelashes open to stare at the blurry outline of your bedroom. You smiled – you missed waking up here – and inhaled deeply the scent of washing detergent. You caught a whiff of musky cologne, one that jolted a forgotten memory somewhere in your mind but you couldn’t quite recall it. Still, your body reacted and you sat up abruptly, blinking away the last ounces of sleep as you carefully looked around your room in panic – why was your heart racing? You were blissful just a second ago…

The main entrance opened and your body went numb with tingles. Holding in your breath you heard the door shut, keys jingling before someone threw them on the counter, “ _Honey_! I’m _hoooooooome!_ ”

 _No way…_ was the first thing that your mind screamed, _it may be a recording, just twisted joke_! Not waiting any longer you yanked the sheets off you and bolted to the bedroom door, pushing it open and stopping to stare. All of your energy left you as you exhaled, limply leaning onto the doorframe as James Moriarty himself stood by the coat hanger with a happy grin and was that a…baseball cap?

“What are you doing here?” You asked, sharply. James recoiled, flicking his brows up.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He shot, “ _See_ , this is my home now.” His grin only seemed to widen, “I bought the building…Wait, _no no_ , scratch that - the neighborhood. I’ll have you know my lawyers are working out the details, but that’s” he waved dismissively, “ _boring_.”

“…You bought…the _neighborhood_? _Why_?”

He shrugged, “Why does one do anything? Maybe I just felt like it.” he was acting, you could tell. Casually, he walked to the kitchenette, “Want some coffee?” You blinked a few times, pinching your upper arm to make sure this wasn’t some stress infused hallucination or a lucid dream. Sadly, it wasn’t. Reluctant you paced over, sitting on a stool by the counter as you tried your best to mask content with whatever was happening. James opened a few cabinets, searched a few drawers and before you could fully comprehend the situation a steaming cup of coffee was placed down next to your cool hands.

“You know, you should really tidy up…Never know when you’re gonna have visitors.”

“ _Ah_ , yes, my apologies, didn’t expect anyone to have keys to my flat. Honest mistake.”

“Is it just me or are we moving to playful banter? Fingers crossed I’m correct.” Ironically, he raised his own cup to his lips and took a shy sip – it was your favourite one, pink with ‘ _Sweetheart’_ written in frilly letters – and smiled, “By the way, do you like my outfit _? Casual Jim_ is what I call it. I think it suits me.”

“I’ve only ever seen you once in a suit.”  You recalled.

“If you want to more all you have to do is ask, little Lo.” He told coyly, a wolfish smirk pulling on the corner of his lips.

“I think I’ll manage.” You countered, coldly at that, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there a reason for the sudden visit?”

“ _Weeell_ …” James pretended to think, staring off somewhere over your shoulder before his intense gaze locked yours, “If I told you I missed you, would you believe me?”

“…No.” You replied breathless, glancing away – you couldn’t deal with such a look this early in the morning, especially since something much more untamed shimmered behind his dark iris. A shiver rippled down your spine, and ticklish you shifted in your seat. Moriarty seemed to enjoy the show as he did nothing to ease your discomfort, only continued to stare and tilt his head slowly to the side like a curious pup.

“I’m surprised Sherlock didn’t put John on babysitting duty.” He suddenly broke the tension, making you look up, “ _Oh_ , don’t tell me you think I didn’t know? It’s obvious. You’re out the game, Lolita, Sherlock kicked you out!”

“He _didn’t._ ” You said, “Didn’t kick me out. He needed to focus and—“

“ _He kicked you out_.” James sent a pitying look your way, offering a fake pout for comedic effect, “ _Aww_ , poor little Lolita, kicked off the angel squad, what ever will she do now?”

“I was never on their… _squad_.” You mumbled, “And besides, Sherlock was solving a puzzle _you_ gave me.” You derailed the conversation, “Oswin Oswald and Sara Jane. Are they alive?”

“ _Sadly_.” Moriarty blurred, sparking hope in you and making you sit up straight, “Little Sherlock made it, _woohoo!_ , let’s celebrate by shooting someone, preferably me. I just _can’t- I can’t stand_ it when he plays clever, you know? He’s so ordinary then. And there is nothing more boring than an _ordinary_ Sherlock.”

It was almost surreal – James Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime was standing in your kitchenette drinking cheap coffee mixture and gossiping about your best friend. Such a normal conversation was abnormal. What was even more abnormal is how at ease you felt. There were moments of fear and tension, mainly when your eyes met, but other than that you didn’t even feel how you relaxed and went along with his chit chat about this and that – he seemed entertained and so were you. How did you manage to keep up with him you had a few ideas – he was letting you was most likely the correct one, but knowing the colossal difference in power between you two sparked something in your chest. It was a reaction similar to an adrenaline rush, to knowing the car one’s speeding down the highway is going to crash but being too caught up in the moment to care. You smiled genuinely at his joke, on the inside cringing by your own reaction. This is what he wanted, after all. To win the Game. And even if it didn’t look like it, right now the two of you were engaged in a calculated game of chess that you were actively, and knowingly, losing. One look into the deep pools of his eyes would send you in a whirlwind and you couldn’t understand what your next move was.

Before you knew it, he was leaned on the other side of the counter, close enough for his hat to gently graze your forehead. The pleased smile never left his face and in an amused tone he spoke, “ _My my,_ Lolita. Careful now, don’t make this an easy win.” You replied with a smile of your own.

“What makes you think I’m losing? Maybe I’m just learning.”

“To give up?” He raised a brow.

“To inspire hope... Only to tear it all away.”

He watched carefully as your lips formed each word, making heat strike your cheeks as the intensity of his gaze and proximity became dizzying. Keeping your breathing leveled you tried to remain calm, even if it proved to be extremely difficult. The grin was wiped clean from his face and his expression turned almost sinister, his jaw locking as again; mechanically he tilted his head to the side. The tension rose. The scent of his cologne tickled your nose, prompting a memory of your sheets and a flicker of confusion to shine in your eyes. He pried his lips open to speak, an action which you consciously or not eagerly followed—

A 70’s hit song started to play in your empty flat, seeming to come straight from him. Jim didn’t move a muscle. You didn’t either, though your brows twitched as if to question what was going on. Was his phone ringing? As if reading your thoughts, Moriarty eased up, pulling away with an annoyed sigh he rubbed his face, “Just when _it started to get_ **_FUN_**!” in a sudden swing of violence he threw the ‘ _Sweetheart’_ onto the floor, making you flinch as it shattered. Releasing an angry huff, Moriarty loosened his jaw and dug his hand into his pocket, taking out a black cellphone and pressing ‘ _Accept’_ he pushed it to his ear, “ _If this is unimportant_ ” His tone sent a fearful shudder up your spine, “ _I will personally skin your whole family, starting with your wife now **WHAT IS IT!?”**_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapteroonies in one!  
> this is already like one of the longest chapters I have ever written. Hope you like it! I really love writing this and I think it shows, so stay tuned. If you have any questions or suggestions feel free to send them in.   
> P.S. the sherlock finale killed me and idk howto feel i love moriarty too much orz  
>  Till next time!


	14. They bloom.

“I’m glad…I’m glad I caught us alone. I wanted to talk to you. And I think you know what about.”

A rehearsed stream of words left your mouth as your eyes bored into Sherlock’s, and whilst you weren’t completely on the same plain of reality as him, you tried your best to stay focused. Sherlock was silent for a long while, most likely contemplating whether he should shoo you away again or humor you for an hour. He sat on his favorite chair, fingers delicately pressed together. Somewhere in the flat Pirate meowed loudly. Your hand left the door’s handle and with a silent huff you threw your purse on to the bed, dragged a chair away from the cluttered desk and placed it in the middle. Normally this was where the clients sat, but this will do for now. Sherlock watched your every move carefully.

“Have you seen him recently?”

_The flat was deadly silent as you held in your breath, either out of fear or share awe you couldn’t tell. Your eyes traced the outline of the carefully crafted mask, lastly peering through his dark chocolate eyes to see what he was really feeling. Rage intertwined with desire. Moriarty hadn’t said a word after the phone call, only stared at you. You figured he was trying to concentrate, to stop the whirlwind of conflicting emotions and overpowering anger. Then again, this was James Moriarty, and to assume to know what he was thinking was beyond idiotic._

“ _No_.” The lie was swift and slipped before you could even process it. Sherlock raised a brow. Did he catch it, you wondered?... But wait, why were you lying in the first place? Your cheeks heated and you were sure it had little to do with your winter jacket. Unconsciously or not, you unzipped it. “He… _texted_ me, though. How did the operation go?” You changed subject as smoothly as you could, “Saving Jane and Oswald that is...”

“It was easy.” He told, coldly. A pause. “ _Too_ easy.”

_And the he cracked, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone and smashed it into his pocket. Taken aback by the sudden flip you leaned out, watching him circle the counter and head straight for the door. The last drop of common sense left and you did the worst possible thing you could do---_

“Too easy?” You asked, your brows knitting together softly, “What do you mean?”

Sherlock’s eyes swept you up and down a couple of times before narrowing, “It was a distraction.”

“ _From what_?” Your voice held a distinctive strain and you prayed he didn’t hear it. The tension grew in a rapid pace.

_You grabbed his arm in a sheer fling of feeling, not thinking, but the force threw your bare feet onto the ground to steady yourself. Why did you do so? Your confusion portrayed in a flash of uncertainty in those big (colour) eyes and you knew that he realized. The power quickly shifted, his hand effectively dismissing your meek hold and grasped you by the wrist so tightly your fingers dangled numb. You gulped, pushed so close to him that the room appeared to spin. His musky cologne hit your nose and you inhaled sharply, your heart dropping to the bottom of your stomach as you saw him sneering._

“I don’t know.” Sherlock finally said, seeming to relax. You blinked. “Now, what is it you wanted to talk about?”

“ _O_ -Oh… _Oh_ , right, _uhm_ …” You hooked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, trying to contain the spewing images in your mind. They played like a record on repeat. It almost felt as if he had invaded your mind. Bashful, you glanced up, “Why did you ignore me, Sherlock?”

_His hat was tilted upwards, a soft spot on your forehead still tingling when you hit it. You gulped. Moriarty’s anger wilted and he uttered disappointed, his breath fanning your face and making it heat. He shook his head softly, “Don’t…don’t look at me like that, Lolita. Or else I may just give in and stay.”_

“It’s fine-“ Your voice jumped, “ _It’s fine_ if you don’t… _want t_ o talk about it.” You hurriedly said, “ _Uhm_ -.. _I mean_ …I’m sorry, my head is just so…fuzzy.”

“ _Clearly_. Have you been up all night?”

“ _What-?_ No, _no_ , I’ve slept really well actually. I missed my old home. Felt good to be there again, _it’s just_ …” You couldn’t force the truth to come out. “ _Uhm…_ Just Moriarty _he_ …The text, the text said he bought it… _My flat_. My whole neighborhood _, actually_. _Now I_ … _Now_ I really _can’t_ come back.” Sherlock was silent. You cracked a smile, “Maybe I’m just delusional, but you don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not. He told me.”

You froze. Like a furnace your body heated and cold sweat broke out your pores. “What… _What_ else did he say?”

“Nothing else, I’m afraid. He seemed chipper. Though, can hardly tell through texts…”

“I see…” Your palms itched. You rubbed them on your jeans, “ _Know what_? Change of subject.” You started, lighter, “I know it’s been…A hell of a week, month… _Months_. _But_ …I guess I never really got to say this, since, _you know_ …You’re _you_. But…I’m glad. _I’m glad we met_ , Sherlock.” He was silent, letting you continue, though you could tell he was pleased, “And I want you to know that no matter what happens _...I’ll always_ have your back. On anything.”

“…Strange. Hardly anyone would be glad to stumble upon a murder.”

“Yes, well, I’m not _‘anyone’_ , am I?”

“For once you are correct.

“Excuse me, _once_?!”

It all happened so quickly: one moment you were sitting, looking content with the somewhat dry conversation and the next you were latching onto his hand with a note of desperation in your eyes as if you frantically tried to convey a secret he didn’t catch. It was futile; even the burst of your breath which indicated frantic energy fell on deaf ears as all Sherlock could notice was how different your hands felt on his. They were soft and warm, warmer than he had imagined – he always viewed you with a sort of chilly tone and finding no trace of it surprised him. He could feel your fingers jerk and twitch as you grasped his hands, your lips moving with a shaky tone to yet again prove your innocents. For what? His mind couldn’t keep up. He noted the rosy hue on your cheeks. Why did he notice that? All he could fully focus on was the pleasant touch and once he conducted that you indeed were waiting for an answer he drew in blank.

“ _What_?” Sherlock blurred, stone faced but curious. A smile pulled on the corner of your lip and you sighed, relieved, hanging your head with a small shake and letting your hands drop from his. He did not like the sudden change.

“ _Nothing_ …” you told with a grin, “Nothing at all.” Was it relief or disappointment? Again, this was your face, your body, your words, and he understood nothing of it.

~*~

You didn’t know what was wrong with you. Keeping a secret such as this was not only a reckless move but also a bad one – you should’ve told Sherlock. And John. Though, once John came back with a full bag of ice cream and a bottle of wine ‘ _This calls for a celebration_!’ he had said, clearly referring to the successful rescue mission, but you knew he noted something off about you. Whether it was the constant ‘ _Hmms_?’ or far away looks out the window with a half empty glass, John Watson was sharp-eyed and realized something had been up. Where Sherlock’s brilliant mind failed, Johns kicked in. They sure were a match…And you felt even worse for betraying them.

The whole evening all you could think of was that demanded morning your mind had dubbed your best wake up yet. You didn’t want it to, to be frank you felt bitter you were acting the way you were. But it was just the way Moriarty looked at you, really looked, straight through your eyes and stripped your soul naked for him to examine. Granted, it probably wasn’t only your soul he wanted to strip. The happy grin infused with plastic for the dramatic effect yet still ever the charming. Or the grip of his rough fingers of the sensitive flesh of your arm that sent tingles. Even then, wine glass in hand you traced a finger over the spot as you stared away into nothing. A gesture so tender did not go unnoticed by John who sat gleeful beside you and on his third glass.

While Sherlock was preoccupied with searching online – ‘ _It’s idiotic but hilarious and John swoons like a school girl over it’_ he had assured – tipsy himself and only half listening, John leaned in, “Alright, what is up with you?”

You snapped, “ _What_?” nervously you twirled your glass, “oh, _nothing_ , just thinking.” and took a sip.

“About what?”

“Stuff.”

“And things?”

“… _Yeeee_ **p**.”

“Is this about…” John’s eyes travelled to Sherlock, “ _you know who_?” your brows knitted in confusion. _Moriarty_? Did he mean Moriarty? At the sheer thought of him your body responded on its own with a shudder that you barely managed to surpress. You looked away. John seemed almost ecstatic, “So it _is_ about him!”

“How did you…How did you know?”

“ _Pf-sh_!” He laughed much too loud, causing Sherlock to glare at the both of you, “It’s obvious!”

“What’s obvious?” Sherlock asked.

John merely waved him off, “Never mind that, did you find that dancing Chihuahua?”

“Dancing Chihuahua?”

“It has a sombrero on its head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filler chapter, sorry haha. Needed to get this out so I can focus on the big bad ones. I'm glad people are really enjoying this story! I love writing it ;;
> 
> see you in the next chapter, which will hopefully much sooner than this one!


	15. The Reinchenbach Hero.

**_November 13 th, 8:02 am._ **

 

The room was chilly and so he pulled his robe closer. Behind the window the sun was barely peeking out, rows of people rushing to their jobs and one particularly loud neighbor was screaming at a taxi to stop. Frost bit the glass, making it sparkle once a lone ray shone through and onto the delicate skin of your knuckles. You sat in your favorite spot – on the couch with a colorful pillow to rest your back on and a yellow smiley face above your head. In your hands you held today’s newspaper, quick (color) eyes roaming around the page to find something of interest.

Sherlock was watching you. No surprise there, he always watched you. It was strange admiration he felt for you, whether he admitted it or not, his mind would often wander to you and it was mostly always against his will. Whenever you’d leave he gazed out the window and followed your retreating back, trying to map out all the possibilities of  what were you to do. Granted, you nearly always told him once you were tucking in your scarf, but it seemed to slip his mind as he’d become distracted by your own presence, not words. That was the one and only reason he didn’t like to have you around anymore, but you being out of his eyesight was even more worrisome. Sherlock exhaled though his nose, his fingers coming to delicately touch one another as he immersed himself into his mind completely. He caught of whiff of bitter coffee and tea from the kitchen, but that was as far as his sensory detection went.

The light that played on your knuckles now illuminated your whole hand, making his eyes examine the curve of your wrist and the loose grip of your fingers around the cheap paper. He then travelled to your clothes – already you were prepared for the day, though what caught his interest was the peak of your cleavage once you lowered the newspaper to turn a page. Your face was what he next examined, a barely visible smile pulling on his lips and he managed to hide it behind his fingers. You yourself were grinning softly, eyes flashing with visible joy as you pulled the article closer to inspect it thoroughly. You obviously found something you liked, which for some strange unexplainable reason made Sherlock happy and he shifted in his seat.

“Breakfast’s ready!” John pulled him out of the daze and Sherlock tilted his head to his flat mate carrying two cups – one for him and one for you. You perked up, letting the newspaper fall into your lap as you gratefully accepted the cup and winced lightly once your fingers burned as they lingered on the hot porcelain for too long. Sherlock merely nodded in acceptance as John placed his tea on the coffee table beside him, shuffling back to the kitchen to get his own before joining Sherlock on the other armchair, “ _So_ ,” John started, happily, his eyes going from you to Sherlock and back, “what have we planned today?”

“Job hunting.” You said, blowing on your drink, “Since… _you know_. After the Jane thing I was sort of… _fired_.” You mumbled awkwardly.

“You already have a job.” Sherlock spoke up, making you blink. “Your my assistant.” He clarified.

“Well…yeah, _but_ …I…want to a _real_ job. That pays _real_ money.” You told cheekily, “No offense but I’m reaching my limit here. There are only so much of you two I can tolerate.”

“ _Ha ha_ , very funny.” John said unamused, “ _Oh_ , and by the way, Sherlock, we have a lot of clients coming in to—“ the detective himself, however, only raised his hand to shut John up as his eyes narrowed at you. Something was… _off_. Was it the way you breathe? The different styling of your hair? Or the new color of your lip-gloss? What had caused such an alarming reaction, he wondered, and why did he only notice it now? Reading his gaze he noted you shift quite stiffly and glance away, tapping your nails on the cup before falling back into place with a cheerful smile. It seemed strained, however, and his suspicion only grew. He wanted to ask was he the only one to notice such a strange change, but refrained, instead recoiling and mulling over what he was going to say to John once you left the flat.

“ _Boring_.” Came his monotone voice and John barely refrained from rolling his eyes, “What were you reading, (Name)?” The question took you aback but you only smiled, setting the cup down and taking the paper before flashing it to Sherlock and John.

“The _Reinchenbach hero_.” Your voice echoed in the quiet room. Your brow ticked upwards, “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

 

**_Same day, 05:42pm._ **

 

A frustrated huff and the slam of the main door – Sherlock knew you had returned without looking away from the microscope. He examined the bright yellow particles carefully, adding and subtracting numbers in his mind before it drew blank and he blinked. He felt your presence (and heard your footsteps approaching) to his left and before he knew it he leaned out and turned to face you. Your hair was a complete mess from the wind and rain and he snorted, making you grit your teeth before you stomped to one of the high cabinets and took out a box of blueberry muffins, then plopping down on a chair next to him. You pushed away important equipment and some text books, rolling over a test tube which was frankly empty. Sherlock caught it just in time before it went off the table and shattered. You were oblivious to the inconvenience however, as still irritated you bit into the delicious sweet.

“I’m guessing job hunting went well.”

“ _How_?” You asked, breathless. “ _How_ in the whole of London city does _no one_ need a perfectly qualified and ambitious woman desperate for a job ** _?_** ”

“Well, for starters – _qualified_? Yes. _Ambitious_? Debatable. Also, need I remind you that you already have a job? Seeing as you clearly despise the idea of becoming a waitress—“

“-I _was_ a waitress! For _two_ years!”

“—you best just give up and stay with me and John.” Sherlock mumbled, fiddling with the microscope. “Besides…It is not exactly safe since Moriarty is active.”

You swallowed, “So what am I supposed to do, then? Live out the rest of my life in hiding? Sorry, not only does that sound incredibly dull but it’s also… _incredibly dull_!” You released a frustrated sigh and dropped the muffin back into the box, harshly swapping it away from you. It skid on the cluttered table before ramming a lump of files, “Like, _I know_ he’s psychotic and all, _but_ …I’m not scared of him. _Wait_! _No_! I mean, _I am_ , _but_ just not like I used to be…” Sherlock’s hard gaze made you uncomfortable, and you shifted in your seat, “I’m not terrified of him—“

“You should be.” Sherlock told coolly. “He’s grown on you. That’s not good.” He added, leaning into the microscope again. Your palms clammed with sweat and you nervously swiped them on your jeans before clearing your throat. Sherlock glanced at you, “You’re a clever girl, (Name). His illusions may be deceiving, but that’s all they are – _illusions_. Don’t forget that.”

You felt on edge as you saw those magnetic green eyes pick you apart. Thought it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, it aroused suspicion that he may just see through your charade and expose your secret. Granted, Sherlock was just worried about you, you knew that he was, but you were beyond afraid of him turning his back on you after he knew what exactly was going on between you and James Moriarty. Was anything even going in? You had no clue. This whole situation was one bad joke.

Abruptly he turned to you fully, back straight, and his eyes upon meeting your own quickly shot to the side in a fling of reconsideration before they returned confident this time. “There has been something bothering me for a while now.” He told. Your mouth went dry. “Mind if I conduct an experiment?”

“ _Oh_.” That was not what you expected, “Oh, _uhm_ , sure.” You eased up, “Tell me what to do.” A smile lightly, that being enough of an encouragement for him. Instead of saying anything else, however, he leaned in and---

\---kissed you.

You sat frozen for only the briefest of moments until the shock melted away with a thud of your heart, it spreading heat through your body and making your lips tingle. You inhaled once you remembered that _yes, breathing is indeed necessary_ , catching a whiff of Sherlock’s cologne as he slowly pulled away still watching you carefully. His expression was unreadable, making you all the more confused by the sudden spur of feelings that were shown clear by the blush that bloomed on your cheeks. Though, despite all of this, the only thing your staggering thoughts could draw was an image of a man, though not Sherlock, also stealing a kiss from you.

 _Jim Moriarty_. You deflated at the thought.

_You wanted to be kissed by Jim Moriarty, not Sherlock Holmes._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sCREAAAAAAAAAAAAAMINg.  
> motives and etc will be in the next chapter, that i must warn, will be similar in length as 'Another one bites the dust/Lo'. that chapter is one of my personal favs, and this upcoming one i think will be too.  
> hope you liked this chapter. love all of you. thank you for being my daily source of inspiration. your support means the world to me and your comments make me so happy i sometimes tear up.  
> till next time, d xx


	16. The Great Fall.

Your jaw trembled and you gulped, an uncertain smile pulling on the corner of your lip as you desperately tried to find a joke in this whole ordeal – your eyes sweept him up and down and closely examined every inch of his blank face, from the tight line of his lips to the worry lines faded on his forehead. This was Sherlock Holmes, you reminded yourself, to except something deeper from such an empathic show was silly. He himself said it was an experiment, but… _what exactly was he testing out_? The question must’ve shown since Sherlock ticked his brow up, swiftly turning in his seat and mechanically flicking his wrists before getting back to the microscope. Despite the urge to leave you stayed put.

“ _Why_ …did you do that?”

“I told you,” He said, “it was an experiment.”

“For _what_?”

“You’re clever. I am most certain you will be able to figure it out all on your own.”

Did you really expect any kind of other answer? Quietly you slipped off your seat and came to stand, grasping the box of muffins before not so gently yanking the cabinet open and shoving them in. Perhaps you were overreaching – normal human boundaries and common curtsy hardly meant anything to Sherlock Holmes. He was not a normal man, after all. None of the people that took interest in you were. The thought was bitter and you swallowed it with great effort, wordless passing the focused detective and trotting out the kitchen. You found nothing in the living room; just Pirate napping on Sherlock’s heating laptop.

“ _You know_ ,” You started before you could stop yourself, turning to him. He made no move to acknowledge you, “I’m not that clever. _Really_.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well I _don’t_.” At your words he looked up from the microscope. You faltered upon meeting his curious gaze, “I am _not_ a joke, Sherlock. And I _demand_ to be treated with respect. So do not dare…to _ever_ do that again.”

**_Same day, ???_ **

The hammering of your heart droned out all sound as blood shot up your eardrums and made your head spin. The bright lights of the hall turned neon like and moved back and forth in a slow rhythmical manner. You inhaled a ragged breath, feeding your desperate lungs with oxygen before you held it in again. Your hands clammed with sweat. Anxiously, you gripped the slick blank gun tighter before it slipped out your grasp, nervously glancing down at the safety and for a second ignoring dark red dots splashed over the inside of your palm. Your hands trembled. Locking your jaw, you narrowed your eyes at the safety and---

You pushed it off. The ringing sound ripped through your body and you snapped awake as if from a long _long_ dream. Music lowly echoed from the small creases and cracks in the walls. A bead of sweat rolled down your cheek and you wiped your forehead with the back of your sleeve, catching a disgusting whiff of iron that made you scrunch your nose and swallow a bitter lump of saliva. The lamps continued to buzz. A muffled note of sobbing caught your attention. You turned your head back to stare at a faraway door, your one and only way out, before you looked back straight at a curtain shielding another doorway. The urge to turn back was overwhelming and that was what kept you in place. Doubts infected your mind and frightened you were still unable to move.

Your phone buzzed in your jeans pocket. The safety was already off. There was no way you could back out now.

**_A while earlier…_ **

You closed the taxi’s door, thanking the driver before fixing the small bag that hung on your shoulder and looking up at your destination. _Theatre Royal Drury Lane_ stood tall and massive, with a mellow blue foundation and square white pillars that held the terrace above which the name was displayed. Welcoming yellow lights poured from outside the windows, displaying chic red carpeting and ornate decorations. Feeling underdressed you glanced down at your phone. A few more minutes and the play will begin. Piper will have your head for being late.

Hopping up the steps you yanked the cool handle close and the door opened. When you slipped inside a cool breeze caressed the back of your neck before the air stilled, all city sounds from outside being left behind the glass. A blank tune rung from the speakers. All would appear normal except that—

“Where…is everyone?” It was a rhetorical question and you expected no answer. Turning your head sideways you inspected the crooks and crannies before taking a shy step forward. For a while you stood waiting for someone to pop up and apologize for the negligence. Uneasiness pooled in the bottom of your stomach. Something was not right here.

You jerked once the speakers croaked, “ _Pssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhh_ \--- Lolita.” Your blood ran cold, “ _Lo.Lee.Ta._ Can you hear me? This is a bit unexpected but I just _had_ to warm you. Your friend Piper is _very_ _angry_ with you. Don’t mean to alarm, but... you should probably hurry.”

**_Back to now…_ **

As you carefully moved to the door, bits and pieces of distorted memories of how you got here started piling back to place. The mindless wandering in search of help. The dead security guard with his bloodied gun placed on his desk with a note attached to it that read ‘ _take me’_. Moriarty’s nerve-wrecking taunts.

You pulled the door open. Warm air tickled your throat as silently you passed the threshold, eyes roaming around the backstage before falling straight ahead where white lights shone onto the wooden flooring and set. Tall trees with heavy branches and painted on green leafs overshadowed a picture of a castle. From it extended a balcony, no doubt that’s where the main actress was to sit and wait for her prince charming. The music dulled down and faded into nothing when the door swung shut with a loud bang. A soft cry echoed in the empty theater. The floorboards creaked as you took a shy step forward. Coming closer you finally saw the edge of the big red velvet curtain open, noticing the sea of yellow seat. The loaded gun shook in your hard grasps; exhaling, and gathering the last drops of courage you had, you moved to the center of the stage in an even and stiff pace.

The lights rained down and blinded you for a moment. Your arm rose to cover your forehead before your eyes adjusted – the contours of faraway seats started to clear, gold lining beautiful statues of angels and ornate carvings of white stone edged onto the window lodges to the rights. The view was breathtaking, and if you did not feel so meek and small in comparison, you would have stood there in awe.

Clapping made you flinch and drop your hand, tilting your head down your heart jumped. Jim Moriarty sat a few seats back from the stage, in the very middle, with an amused smile pulling on his lips and a gaze that ranged from hungry to mocking. The harsh sound from his hands hurt your ears. A high pitched scream made you snap from him and to the window seats. Your face paled as a restrained Piper, by an unnamed man, sat tied to one of the seats with tears pouring out her big eyes and a red dot pointing at her forehead. The clapping stopped.

“I normally prefer us being alone but,” Moriarty’s voice echoed loud and clear, “can’t say no to a threesome. Not counting my partner in the black suit, of course.” His voice turned coy, “he’d just get in the way.”

“ _What is this_?” You asked through gritted teeth. Jim shrugged.

“ _I_ came here to enjoy the play, Lolita.” He said, “And it seems to me like… _you’re_ the main act.” Jim licked his lower lip, “ _See_ ,” searching his pocket he was quick to find the pamphlet, “It says here that the main character,” his hand flickered to you, “you, _obviously_ , falls deeply in love with one of God’s angels. And, w _eeeeeeeeeeeee_ ll, it doesn’t quiet work out.” He shoved the paper back, “Key word here - _falls_.” The look in his eye captived you and for a second you forgot to breathe. Jim tilted his head to the side slowly, as if to get a view of your scared face from different angles, “Do you like falling, Lolita? I heard the landin’ is always pretty rough, though.”

“You fancy yourself an angel, Jim?”

His whole expression shifted from mildly amused to dark, as leaning in his fingers hooked together and came to rest on the edge of the yellow seat in his front. A wolfish grin spread on his lips, “ _No_ …” he said, “But if you so desire to view me as one I would be _delighted_ to take on that role.” The tension eased as he leaned out, “Though,” he added, “then the whole ‘ _didn’t work out part_ ’ becomes an issue, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your heart betrayed you, the conflicting wave of emotion dyed the whole scene safe and you nearly forgot just in how much trouble you and your best friend were. You felt your cheeks heat just a bit, and gulping you dared to break eye contact with him. It was obvious the way you felt for him, it was always obvious, especially _to_ him. The silence was suffocating and you felt yourself grow anxious yet again. Piper’s muffled cries made your heart ache and once you looked at her you couldn’t look away. The man from the shadows approached the crying girl, about to do something morally incorrect, and the words slipped out your mouth before you could catch them, “ _Don’t_ touch her.” The man halted, “ _Don’t_ you _dare_ touch her.”

“ _Oh_ , about that…” Moriarty spoke up, “ _See_ , little Lo, if the story was straightforward it would be, _well_ , how should I put it…. ** _BORING_**.” You flinched when his tone rose harshly, “ _Just_ … _Just_ a flat line…. _Just_ …” He faltered, massaging his temple, “ _See_ , “ he snapped, “your life needs…” he clicked his fingers, “ _spice_! _Drama_! _Excitement_! Everything that it doesn’t have now!”

“And why is _she_ here?” You questioned. Again, his mood shifted and he grinned.

“ _She_ …Piper, _lovely sweet Piper_ , Lolita’s childhood friend _Piper_ … is here for _you_. To kill.” He said it so casually one would think he was talking about the weather, “ _That is why_ you have a gun, _right_? I mean,” he motioned at the eerily still loaded weapon in your grasp, “why _else_ would you bring it?”

“No.” the voice that left your trembling lips didn’t even sound like your own.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” For comedic effect he leaned in, turning his ear to you, “Could you repeat that louder?”  You shook your head, taking an uneasy step back, “ _Oh_ , Lolita, I always expect _so_ _much_ from you _and_ …You _always_ let me down. Did I forget to mention? Either _you_ can end her o _rrrrrrr_ ,” his head swung to the window seat, “My friend in the black suit can. Either way, only one of you is leaving here alive, and I’m sure you know which is which.”

Overwhelming fear locked your bones and you couldn’t move, only mechanically tilt your head to eye your terrified friend and the eerie shadow of the unnamed man behind her, standing like the grim reaper ready to take a life at a moment’s notice. Your heart tumbled to the bottom of your stomach, your shoulders shaking softly before you composed yourself and bit down hard on your lower lip. Your thoughts, sluggish at first, picked up speed with a frantic chant – _Piper must live_. There was no clear cut way out of this situation and feeling desperate you scanned the theatre for a life line yet found nothing, only the menacing grin of Jim Moriarty that seemed to enjoy your torment above everything else.

A sudden idea popped into your mind, quickly labeled the only way out. It was scary and ironic in a way and you smiled a smile that held no actual feeling only a pitiful laugh at your own foolishness. Moriarty raised a curious brow, eagerly following the conflict shown on your face with the same interest as watching a critically acclaimed movie. The blood in your veins flooded with adrenaline as your breathing labored. For a while you stared at your feet, your vision becoming blurry. Grasping on the last straw of common sense you looked up, one glance of Piper, and then at Jim, lastly you directed your gaze somewhere above his head and bored into nothing in particular. Was this it? Was this really it? You questioned yourself, will you truly do it? _Can_ you even do it? Speculating would lead to more doubt and you would back out before you would even notice so you cut the train of thought short. Your fingers flexed around the hot and slippery handle of the gun. Jim grinned. You inhaled deeply, the tint of perfume and the whiff of acrylic paint tickling the back of your throat as you raised the gun and pointed it at your temple.

The air stilled completely, even Pipers quiet sobs stopped; “Only one of us leaves alive, or did I catch that wrong?” You were met with no answer, your vision staggering as the cold metal burned into your sensitive flesh, sending a shiver down your spine. Your hand quivered, “Let her go _or_ I pull the trigger.” At the demand, you met Moriaty’s gaze. His expression was stoic, whatever he was feeling if anything at all, you could not tell.

“ _Lo, Lo, Lo_ …” He finally spoke with a shake of his head, “If I wanted you dead I would’ve killed you a long time ago in a _much_ _more_ gruesome fashion than a simple bullet to the hea—“

“ _Let her go_ , or I pull the trigger.”

Jim’s brows knitted together in annoyance, his jaw tensing as he silently gritted his teeth, “ _Do it_.” He told darkly, “If you are _so_ eager, why wait? Do you _honestly_ think _your life_ is a bargaining chip?”

“ _Yes_.” He scoffed at your answer, “Yes it is.”

“ _Why_?”

“…Because _I_ …” You rasped, “ _I took your pulse_.”

A sudden realization shone on his face and he faltered, raw emotion slipping through the cold mask as his eyes betrayed uncertainty before they were glazed over with anger, “You’re playing a _dangerous game_ , Lolita.”

“Let. Her. _Go_. Or I _shoot_.”

“You won’t do it.”

“ _Don’t_ comfort yourself with empty words.” You spat, “Let Piper _go_ and _never_ touch her again, _or I shoot_.” To be completely fair, the gun was now practically glued to you and you couldn’t move your hand even if you wanted to. Tense silence followed after you words as you engaged in a heated stare down with Jim Moriarty that seemed everything but pleased by your outlandish actions. Your feet stood rooted on stage and you mentally reminded yourself to shoot if you heard any sound behind you coming closer, making sure your eyes told as much to him. Whilst your determination did not dwindle, you knew that you could not keep up with this deafening silence and rapidly growing suffocating tension. Your arm started to hurt. Your temple caved with blood as you were ramming the firearm so hard to it, afraid to let your grip slip.

Maybe you stood there for an hour, or maybe the mark barely reached a few minutes, but lastly Jim Moriarty relaxed his shoulders, his wrist lazily flicking upwards as if to dismiss everyone else that was not you or him. The red dot disappeared from Pipers forehead, the unnamed black suited man coming to untie her. The woman jerked hard and once he moved away she glanced at you for a signal to run. Your curt nod was enough for her and stumbling out the chair she pushed past the guard and scrambled away. The man left shortly after. Behind Moriarty the lights turned shut. You exhaled hard, your energy leaving you with that fateful breath and you became weak in the knees, nearly tumbling over. Colour returned to your cheeks and still trembling you released your hold on the gun, slowly pulling it away from you and hooking the safety back on with your finger. In the meantime Moriarty came closer, walking up the steps to the stage and appearing right in front of your eyes with a soft, though fake, expression shaping his stone cold face. It was enough to fool you, to comfort you, and you did not back away when he was closer than within arm’s reach

The rough pads of his fingers traced the outline of your jaw, lastly gently grazing your cheek as he curled a strand of loose hair and tugged it over your ear, his eyes never once leaving your own. “Never do that again, (Name).” The low tone of his voice caressed your earlobe, his hot breath fanning your lips and engulfing you in a light, stress induced, daze and you softly shut your eyes savoring the ring of your real name on the tip of his tongue and the warmth of his hand that rested on the side of your throat. Your heart spurred back to life, your world crashing down on you like lightning and rippling your body with intense heat. Before you could quiet understand what you were to do, you leaned in and captured his lips in a long overdue power kiss. Moriarty didn’t pull back, on the contrary his fingers twitched as his grip tightened, the kiss riddled with pure desire making your head spin.

It tasted like paradise. A paradise with skies the colour of hell flames yet paradise still.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im screaming?????? i hope you liked this chapter??? idk im still screaming?????????? i dont even know what t say i was literally working on this for the whole day and i could hardly wait to post it. if you're wondering why it is called 'the great fall' well it is because the reader falls. in love. or what she believes to be love. DISCLAIMER: moriarty dOESNT ACTUALLY LOVE HER1!!! he has strong feeling for her, yes, but it is not love!
> 
> anyway see you in the next installment //disgusting sobbing  
> xx


	17. Ladies and gentleman of the jury.

_Ladies and gentleman of the jury. If I were to confess for as early as September, that I would be so helplessly, violently, intoxicatingly in love with a man, a beast, a disgrace to the human heart, a man , who knows no bounds, no empathy or words of affection, I would tell you to kindly piss off for what you spouted was to be dubbed as nonsense. And yet here I am. Here I am. In a tangle of my own thorns, unable to distinguish what is true to what I faked, if I even faked anything at all. It is all so…confusing. Dazzling. I am afraid, yet ready to fall if I have not already. It is silly, is it not? Even now my thoughts…Run, they run like lines from the book he and I so adore. And in this moment, I am not (Name) (Lastname). I am not Sherlocks best friend. I am not Piper’s savior. I am not Pirates owner._

_I am Lolita. Lo, plain Lo in the morning, standing five feet six in one sock. Lola in slacks. Dolly at work. Dolores on the dotted line. But in his arms, I am always Lolita._

His fingers clasped around your throat gently, almost lovingly, and the heat of his hand warmed your whole body. Your lips pried, perhaps to say something or just to catch some oxygen because you knew when he would pull you close you wouldn’t be able to breath. You stared him in the eyes, feeling your skin crawl with a shudder as you felt almost hypnotized – he so deep and so very dark. Moriarty watched you with equal intensity, his body pressed to your own as if it would hurt to pry away.

 

His eyes wandered from your eyes to your lips in a matter of seconds before you noted a small smirk starting to form. You gulped, feeling tingly – his scent was starting to make your head spin. “Am I…” He suddenly spoke up, quietly, huskily, “that distracting?” He questioned. You couldn’t reply. He waited for a brief moment before anger flashed on his face and his expression twisted into a sneer. He squeezed your throat and you nearly choked, “You will answer me from now on, Lolita.” In a heated moment he smashed his lips to yours and your knees nearly buckled.

 

The last lights of the theatre shut down with a harsh whip of sound that tickled the inside of your earlobe, but you ignored it, ignored everything around you as your hands clung onto him in anxiety and desire. Your mind was an incoherent mess of prose and poetry as you desperately tried to shape this twisted situation into a paragraph you could understand. But you failed and failed again as the taste of him became overpowering and before you knew it you drew in blank and let him take over. The need for air was suffocating but you were not planning to pull away until he was. It seemed that he had similar thoughts – the sensitive edges of your lips numbed. His grip loosened and snaking his fingers around your hair he yanked you away, exposing the blank canvas of your neck to him. Your skin prickled. Taking in quick breaths your eyes glazed over him, trying to make out his features in the dark. Your throat was sore and it tensed once his hot breath tickled the crook of your neck, the tip of his nose gently grazing over the skin.

 

In a last attempt at salvation you blurred an amused, cocky slur, “Bite me.”

 

You yelped lightly once he pulled on your hair harshly, “Don’t tempt me.” He growled to your neck and you could practically see it, those shapes in colour, your own imagination clouding your vision and making you see how his teeth sink into your flesh and leave a delicious mark. You gasped, however, when all he did was softly kiss the sensitive spot as his other hand, one not arrest on the side of your throat, slid down your bare shoulder, caressing the edges of your arm before moving to your waist, lastly rounding a corner and settling on your backside as he squeezed it hard. He inhaled your scent, a mix of sweat and airy perfume, and you could feel him smirk, though this time he sai nothing. So dark. So dark.

 

The voluptuous heat of his body melted into something cooler, yet still warm, but missing the human touch though his fingertips still tingled on the sides of your bare waist. What groaned behind you sounded suspiciously like a mattress—but wait, where are you? Were you not in the theatre just a minute ago—

 

In an alert flash your eyes open, unfocused and blurry your surroundings prove nauseous for only a brief moment before all strikes with immense precision and you halt into a sitting position; the grey covers ruffle and fall, exposing your bare chest as the cool chill bites the red spots on your skin. You look around, your mouth falling agape as you gaze out the window to find the whole of London looking so small and insignificant on the back of your palm. Those memories, clogged by sleep, start resurfacing and spreading like venom, making your cheeks heat and pull the covers closer to your body. The sweet though haunting echoes of your name ring in your ears. You gulp. Your hand trembles as you stick it out of the safe warm coven under the cover and inspect the damage on your skin. The pad of your finger gently grazes the outline of your silhouette and you hiss once it lands on the hurting spot on your shoulder – you feel imprints, the wound weeps under your touch. So he did leave a bite mark after all! The thought makes you grin and you surpass an excited squeal, though soon your mood wilts as reality sets in.

 

You and Moriarty. That can never work. Moreover, what would Sherlock think? They were enemies, and you just…You…

 

You betrayed Sherlock Holmes for a criminal.

 

Your fingers curl into tight fists and in a spur of anger you throw your legs over the edge of the big bed and tug the covers along with you, curling them around your body into a make-shift dress and you stalk to the window. You stand close to it, so close that you can feel the cold British air radiating through. Your eyes gaze downward to watch nameless strangers scurry around. It seems you are in an apartment complex, a sky scraper most likely. But how high up? And where exactly? The questions of your whereabouts are the least of your worries, you conduct, gulping and feeling unease knot in your abdomen. You could not mask this with a touch of foundation unlike you did in college, nor could you lie through your teeth. Not again. Not about this. This is too big, too bad and too complicated to gulp down and forever stay in silence. That and, of course, if you were not to speak, Moriarty sure would.

 

You lost; either way your victory was nowhere in sight. You made your choice and it was concrete, final, everlasting. _But it was for love_!—the voice in the very back of your mind squeaks and startles you. You even turn back to see if anyone had invaded the privacy, of what you assumed, to be Moriarty’s room. _Love_? You think, _love_ … _Is this love? Really? No, it can’t be, it can’t be_ …But those thoughts of last night, of seeing his face or even getting a text prompt the urge of a smile and unexplainable happiness to almost consume you. But he does not love you, you know he does not. Or…does he? No, no way, you know better than that…But…maybe? _No_!

 

In an attempt to shake off these difficult thoughts you turn away from the window and stalk back to the bed – what you expected to gain by such a curt reaction you had no idea. On the bedside table you spot your phone laying silent, only a timed flash of red indicating a message flaring as a dot on its screen. Once you have it in your hand you find a few messages. The first one you open is from Piper – a bitter taste settles on the edge of your tongue as you read out her long scared text with a sombre tone. You whip up a quick reply: an apology for everything that had happened and for failing to reply sooner to her calls, also promising to explain absolutely everything once the dust had settled. The other message however makes your heart swell.

 

_Don’t wait up! Daddy’s got business to  
attend to. Xoxo_

_[Message from: J.M.]_

 

You don’t send a response. Frankly, you can’t think of anything and waiting for him to return was the last thing you wanted to do – you couldn’t form a text response, how could you say something to his face? Impossible! Throwing your phone onto the pillows you move in search of clothes with the idea of getting the hell out.

 

Once you’re dressed and not looking too depressed, you push the door of his bedroom open and freeze up when you are met face to face with a guard. A slick jaw, tailored clean black suit and a friendly expression is all you manage to take in as his voice distracts you, “Good morning, Miss. Your ride is already waiting for you downstairs.”

 

Did you hear him correctly, you wonder, your grip on the handle loosening and you took a small step back, raising a questioning brow, “What?” is all you manage to say, though the guard does not seem surprised. Instead he was patient, prying his lips open again to calmly explain everything but you cut him off, “No, never mind, I don’t want to hear it. I’m leaving.”

 

“Of course, Miss—“

 

“ _Don’t_. Don’t…What floor is this?”

 

“If you’d allow me to assist you—“

 

“ _What_. _Floor_?”

 

All it took was you threatening to fire him and he pissed right off.

 

A light sprinkle of rain proved refreshing; the sounds of the city, banter of people and far away barks of dogs all were but a pleasant distraction as you made your way down the street. You were at the very centre, at the heart of London. You would have gladly wandered around aimlessly for the whole day if it meant not seeing Sherlock, but the striking call of your name makes you stop and turn your head back – you see a faintly familiar female waiving at you, one hand holding a cup of coffee. Once she noted you see her, a smile blooms on her face and she approaches you with a hurried step and when she is close enough your mind finally clicks – it’s Molly Hooper. You had met her a few times when Sherlock was dragging you along.

 

“Hi!” She greets you energetic, her smile falling once she sees the tired look on your face, “Oh…I-I don’t mean to pry, but…You really don’t look so good, (Name).”

 

You could have just told her it was none of her business – after all, you were not close friends, not friends at all to be completely honest. But something about her friendly face and the genuine concern behind her eyes is comforting, needed, and so you let a smile slip and reply, “Rough night…Bad…one night stand.” Her face scrunches and she brings the plastic cup to her lips.

 

“M…had one of those before…” She says, and then takes sip. You blink. “Say…I was just going to work…Would you like to walk together? We could stop, grab you a drink, share stories…” Molly trails off hopeful, her eyes wandering down as she patiently awaits for your answer.

 

“Sure. That would be lovely.”

 

Molly can’t hide the grin and with a light jump in her step, she strides forward and you follow, droning on about her love endeavours you didn’t have in you to fully listen to. It is a bad habit to ignore other around you, but you can’t help it. Not now at least. “…--But you know, despite how they turn out, at least one night stands are…you know, one night.” She snickers, “Not like you’ll see the bloke again.”

 

 _If only_ , you think, _if only…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing beats using quotes from the actual book in this fic orz im crying??????????????ok! thank you everyone for the support and all the lovely comments. it really makes my day. <3 if you have any questions feel free to ask! alas, I must go now and do actual homework orz
> 
> xoxo


	18. B is for betrayal.

_**"Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired." - r.f.** _

 

 

The elevator released a soft ding before the doors slid open, though it all fell on deaf ears.

 _Tap tap tap_ on the side of his thigh from his hand. Moriarty moves with a flicker of a smile on his face in even, though a bit rushed, steps. One may even dare to think he is in a good mood. The long corridor with offices on each side fades quick as he turns to the left, falling into another maze of dull grey colors and assistants that either lower their heads with a curt greeting or flirtatiously eye him pass. One in particular, wearing a skirt that is just a bit too short, tries to catch his attention by exclaiming, “ _James_! I have your papers---“ but just like the rest of them, he passes quick without even a pitiful glance thrown in her direction. The lady stands there for quite a while, long before he enters the designated office of the meeting. She watches the door slide shut, feeling the remains of her bitter coffee tickle the back of her throat as her fingers dig into those dreaded papers and they crumble in her grasp. _What had happened?_ She wonders _, why is he ignoring me?_ He was acting fine barely a week ago, even asked her out to a date. _Is he in a bad mood?_ She feels worry; noting the sideways glances her colleagues sent her she composes herself and quickly moves into the office where he entered.

Rita Adams takes a spare seat on the other side of the massive table, making sure Moriarty is within her eyesight and she fails to hide her annoyance when again her desired man doesn’t look at her. One last person is missing and so the business partners wait. The clock ticks in a mockingly slow pace. The room is quiet, besides the conversation of Mr. Business 1 with Mr. Business 2, and Rita sees that they expectantly glance at Moriarty as if urging him to join in.

Music. All that is heard clearly is music in the quiet office as it comes from small white headphones in his ears as he continues to tap his thigh and hum, absentmindedly staring into space. After three failed attempts to catch his attention she moves seats and now, with her back arched gracefully, sits directly across him. Mr. Business 1 and Mr. Business 2 end their brief chatter to ogle at her impressive curves. She feels powerful and pleased, even sends them a delicate wink that would simply be seen as an innocent clap of her eyelash if one was not paying attention. She turns to Moriarty again – she hopes with everything she has that _he saw_ , that he _saw_ how desired she is – and goes pale upon meeting his cold brown eyes. Disgust.

 _Disgust_.

“ _Ah_ , I see you are all here.” The so awaited partner enters with his small case first before shutting the door behind him and fixing his tie. Moriarty lazily yanks one headphone out of his ear, though leaves the second one in. “James, please, if you may.” With a short sigh – almost like a moody teenager – Moriarty puts away his headphones completely.

“All ears.” Jim says dully, “Why did you call me here?”

The partners share a glance, “There has been…a- _well_ , how should I-“

“Blah-Wah-How should I _wah wah_.” He mocks. The room falls quiet. Moriarty lick the bottom of his lip, leans in with a happy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and hooks his fingers on the table, “You know how pathetic you sound, _right_?” His expression twists. He slams his palms onto the table, “ ** _Get to the point_**!”

“Right, yes, apologies, what I was trying to say is—“

“We think changes should be made.” Rita interrupts, “We, _collectively_ , think you need more involvement with this.” Her gaze goes around the room in search of approval from her peers. They nod. She continues, “With all due respect, James…You _created_ this company. This… _business_. It _needs_ your _immediate_ attention. We know, _we know_ that playing CEO is _not_ what you prefer doing, but you _must_ …If you refuse, then one of the four people here will take over. _It’s all legal._ All in the contracts you yourself created and signed.” She clears her throat, “Of course, it’s still early to talk about this—“

“Then why are we?” Jim asks; his chilling tone creeps up her skin, sending a shiver, “ _Why_ am I here? If it’s so early, then why are we even having this conversation?”

This time, the man from his left speaks up, “Because we believe the sooner we get this sorted – the better. We are not getting any younger, James. We can’t afford to be as... _indecisive_ with our future.”

The dangerous glint in Moriarty’s eye makes Rita lean in, “All we are saying is” she hurriedly speaks up, “a slight change in schedule. _More_ …formal appearances. Slightly longer working hours. Just to show people you are still here.” A nervous smile graces her lips. Moriarty stands to his feet, hooking his hands behind his back seeming deep in thought. He turns on his heel, stalking to the bright windows that open to a cloudy day in London. “ _Please_ , at east consider it. Big figures overseas are not convinced of your capacity.” She notes the tightening of his fingers and gulps, “ _O_ -Of course, they haven’t seen _even half_ of the things you _can do_ , James. _We_ , as a company, _can do_. If you just spend _more_ time around, they would see how serious we are. We could take them down.”

“It’s a great possibility. We have the best people in the world working for us.” Mr. Business 1 agrees.

“The whole world is within our grasp. We could start a war. _Multiple_ , if we wanted to. _Complete_ and _utter_ control.” She continues. He can feel her eyes boring into his back. “But we can’t make a move without you. We can’t _function_ without you and we can’t _win_ either. All we are asking for is more time. _Here_. With _us_.”

_Boring._

_Boring._

_Boring._

Meetings are always boring for James, especially when their about silly world domination or starting a nuclear war. Order…something he never fancied. Chaos is more fun, always more fun. His fellow partners are more ambitious than he is; he realized this a long time ago, on their first meeting perhaps. Or he just simply doesn’t care about those things. _Money? A good reputation in the worlds shadow market?_ He hums in thought. _Boring. Boring. Boring_. When he is bored he listens to music, or let’s his mind drift away. Staring into the distance he can make out the outline of Big Ben. What _doesn’t_ he find boring? Hmm. _Sherlock_ , Sherlock is his first thought. To be completely honest the thing that’s been keeping him distracted for the most part of the year is Sherlock Holmes. His mind is brilliant, one to perhaps even match his own, and he would love nothing more than the great detective himself to sit in the _soon to be dead Rita’s_ chair. Making Sherlock Holmes fall would be the highlight of his life. Half a month at the very least.

Sherlock Holmes, _Sherlock Holmes…_

Moriarty’s jaw tenses and he glares. Sherlock Holmes is now probably with (Name), he figures and he can’t help the utter hatred that tries to claw out of his chest. He was in a good mood before coming here – he swore that even the weather was clearer. Even riding up the elevator all he could think of was those curious desire burned eyes that belonged to you, the way you pronounced his name or even the most simple of words – like telling him to go to hell. To be honest, by thinking about you so much he probably was. He looks down into the sea of people, all scrambling to get to work, as if expecting you to be standing there, waiting for him to see you. A low growl escapes him. The people behind him gulp, sensing as their request has been harshly and absolutely declined. When all that growl was is simply a desperate need to be close to you. He searches for your face again. Of course he can’t find it, so high up he can’t make out anyone. The smell of your hair. The salty sweat of your skin. The brain frying taste of your lips. It felt as if he is not to find you now, you would melt away into a distant dream and never return again.

“… _James_?” it is Rita that calls him carefully. For a second he expected it to be you. Disappointed, he tilts his head softly.

“I’ll think about it.” He says simply, turning back to stare out the window again.

**|*|**

You lower your gaze and shift on the couch. John stares at you expectantly. He’s giving you the look. _The look_ that even made the great detective Sherlock Holmes crack and confess all of his sins. The said detective is missing at the moment – before the confrontation John had mentioned he was running some errands, mostly just looking for body parts for new experiments – and is not expected to return for at least another hour or so. Perhaps that is the only reason John decided to politely ask you over tea ‘ _And where were you, exactly_?’. The guilt in your eyes must’ve shown clearly because John grew stiff, blank and worried, though refused to let it show that much. And now there his is, towering over you with his arms crossed over his sweater and expecting a genuine answer to fall from your lips any moment now.

Pressure. You guess that this is what it is like to drown – words can’t seem to form, you struggle to keep your breathing rhythmical and you have no will to claw yourself out of this situation. He asked so gently, so offhandedly as if it was merely a passing thought. If you had any sort of brilliant talent in lying, or just prepared a convincing story before visiting, you would have avoided all of this. You didn’t blame John for worrying about your whereabouts. You are mostly mad at yourself for being an idiot. You didn’t want to lie to him, but you at least wanted to have the option in doing so. Now there is no way out. The reality of your action weights on your shoulders and the pressure increases. Your cheeks burn hot. You gulp. Your mouth is dry and you pick up the cup of tea John made for you and take a shy sip. It burns your tongue though you hardly react.

“( _Name_ ).” John approaches you gently, taking a seat next to you and grasping his hands over yours. He notes them tremble. He takes the tea out your hands and sets in on the ground before returning his full attention to you, “You know you can tell me anything, right? If something happened, or _will_ happen, no matter how scary it is _you got to tell me and Sherlock._ We’re _friends_. _Practically_ _family_. We will protect you from everything.”

 _Except from myself_ , you think bitterly.

“ _You’ll_ …” the words leave with an uneven note and you clear your throat, “ _You’ll hate me_.” You finish, looking at him. John frowns softly.

“I would _never_ hate you.” You shake your head at his statement, “Neither would Sherlock.” At the mention of his name your heart drops. Tears swell in the corners of your eyes. John blinks, “( _Name_ )… What… _what_ happened?” There is fear in his voice. You take in a deep breath to calm your nerves, your mind rushing with possible explanation, yet none seems sufficient. Genuine.

“Last night I… _I…I_ was supposed to go out to this play with Piper.” You lower your head. John nods, urging you to continue, his hands squeezing yours reassuringly, “and I did. I was at the theatre but when I entered it _I_ … _There_ …There was _no one_ there. Not a soul. I _should’ve called you and Sherlock, I should’ve,_ but I-I _-I-panicked_ and there _he_ was, announcing all sorts of things and I _just_ …I picked up a gun _and I_ …” You smack a palm over your lips, trembling. After a moment of composition, you continue, “ _I-I_ … _He_ said that only _one_ was to leave alive and _I_ …” A tear rolls down your cheek, “I was ready to die. To shoot myself to save her, _Piper_ , she was strapped to this chair and he was going _to-to-to kill her and I_ …”

“ _Jesus Christ—(_ Name), what—“

“He let her go.” Teary eyed you look back at John. You want to see his eyes when you tell him, “He let me go too, but I _was_ …I was _so_ …” you shut your eyes, “ _So_ … _desperate_. _Confused_. _Terrified_ that _I_ …” you open them back up again. You can tell John knows where this is going, but the light flicker of hope remains, “I don’t know what happened but _I_ _kissed_ _him_. And _he kissed me_.”

It is a strange sensation that washes over you like a warm wave of water. The truth has been spoken. It is absolute. Concrete. Undeniable, nor it should be. Despite John’s horrid expression and the overall gloom that settles in Sherlock’s flat without your notice – you feel better. So much better that you even feel like smiling, though the last spec of common sense stops you from doing so. Your lips quirk upwards for only but a second and whether John notices or not you don’t know, and frankly don’t care either. The dust seems to clear. A sunbeam shines through the window and reflects on the old carpet. This strange, warm fuzzy feeling spreads from within, all the way to your toes and your head strikes dizzy. So curious. It had felt surreal, all the things that had happened barely a day prior and this morning – all felt like a bizarre dream until you voiced it aloud. Kiss. The kiss. So sweet and poisonous, infectious, maddening. Like a drop down the rollercoaster that only left a wanton desire for more. You gulp and glance down. A part of you hates yourself for such thoughts – you are betraying your friends. Your _family_.

But does betrayal always tastes so sweet?

You have a sudden urge, like an addict indeed of another shot, for Moriarty to bust down the door and just… _appear_. Be here. Grin at you tauntingly and fake hurt when you fire back something somewhat smart. Like a flickering flame, which’s ignition was the mere confession of the weighing truth it sparked in your chest and there is absolutely no way to control it. You don’t want to control it either.

“… _And then_?” John asks carefully, as if afraid to hear the answer, “What… _what_ happened then?”

You don’t need to reply. Your expression betrays you. Your eyes betray you. John utters something incomprehensible, words lanced with disappointment and you feel bad for making him sad, though not of your actions. You should be. You know you should, but there is no point in denying for any longer. You fell. It happened. Whether it was planned or simply a casualty in the grand scheme of things it hardly matters.

John squeezes your hand one more time before letting go, though it’s more to grasp reality than to actually comfort you. He shakes his head, trying to wrap his head around what you had wordlessly and not, told him. He gulps and with a crooked finger loosens the collar of his shirt under the sweater - it is hard to breathe for him, you can tell. You want to touch him, at least try to reassure him or…give some sort of conciliation, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You aren’t even sure if he would accept such a gesture in the first place.

The flat falls quiet. From down the corridor you can hear Pirate clawing at your new sheets.

The poison is in the wound you see. It must’ve opened fully when you put that gun to your head dead set to pull the trigger. Jim seemed so surprised though, now that you think back on it, he didn’t expect you to try and sacrifice yourself to save another. He probably thought you didn’t have it in you. To tell the truth, you didn’t either. It’s strange. Even the way he approached you afterwards almost desperate, hell dare you think – afraid. But he is and always was a master liar…

 _How does any of this even matter?_ You wonder confused. _How and when did things get so complicated?_ All that is clear is that you need him. So much so that your fingers start hurting from gripping the scratchy fabric of the couch.

“ _Oh_ …(Name)… _what have you done…”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n; pulled an all nighter for this one! hope you liked it!!!! so, we're officially starting our own little arc in the series (not that we were actually really following the show that much) since the whole first half of this story was setting up the reader with sherlock and moriarty. moriarty's arc starts from lolita. now we get to delve...deeper. dare i say the next chapter will prolly be my favorite. have so many ideas! anyway, all i have to say now. peace! xx


	19. Little dove.

_Sherlock came back when you were playing with Pirate in John’s room. Your eyes shot to the ajar door that led to the hallway and you flinched softly when the cat’s claws sunk into the flesh of your hand. John greeted him. You leaned out the comfortable pillows to listen in closely, your heart picking up speed and your brow ticked – a sign of heating nerves. You were sure John would say something about what had happened between you and Moriarty. You were positive. He was Sherlock’s true and only friend (you had deleted yourself from that equation) and Sherlock deserved to know the truth. Granted, he deserved it to hear it from_ **you** _, but you could never bear to face him with this. Not this._

 _Your name echoed all the way to his room and you froze in place. Sherlock had asked where you were the night before – he knew you were listening to this conversation._ Here it comes _, you think. You gulp. Your saliva has a hard time travelling down your dry throat. A lump forms somewhere in the back of your mouth and a small desperate breath escapes your parted lips._

_Lied. John lied. He lied so you wouldn’t have to._

With your hand folded over your apron you silently watch as the small arrow pointing upwards blink red every two to three seconds as the meter beside her raises in number: first one, then two, then three four and so on and on. Your stomach rumbles uncomfortably. The bleak light of the elevator shines over your face and reflects on the metal of your watch, which small arrows point at 9:30 precisely. In the murky silver of the mechanical door you make out your distorted reflection. _16 th floor_. The elevator dings open and you jolt into movement, stepping on expensive white carpeting and glancing around the airy room: most waiters bustle near the flower pots, some fix the napkins, and others make sure not even a grain of dirt loiters in sight.

Background music, jazz you guess, floods the room and the elevator shuts behind you.

You had been working here for the better part of the week. Despite not wanting to work as a waitress anymore, at the moment your options are limited and you can’t exactly stay at home either.

 _Home_ , you think, moving to where the Manager stands overlooking the working crew. Home has become a mine field recently and you _really_ do not want to stay there for more than necessary. You still can’t believe John lied for you. He didn’t have to do it, especially now since he knows the whole truth, the smartest thing he could’ve done is at least suspect you of gruesome crimes and being Bonnie to Moriarty’s Clyde. Not that you are. You couldn’t really hurt anyone…

You greet the Manager and she greets you with a fake smile, her eagle like eyes watching you closely through the black rim of her glasses. Holding a clipboard she scribbles her signature and a few comments before engaging in a completely one sided conversation with you – in a curt professional tone she orders you to move the flowers, then help the small fraction of the crew that is setting up plates and glasses with their duty. You nod and move on.

A crowd of white dressed males and females scurry around in an unnaturally fast pace with lingering tones of excitement and feverish gossip passing from lip to lip. You fall out the perfect picture as the only person that does not even seem half as interested in the upcoming event as any living breathing thing in this large hall is. You find your staff and greet them with a tired hello – no one really cares for you being here, no one really cares about your lack of enthusiasm either. A waiter hands you a crate filled with porcelain glasses and exchanges a few words: ‘two there’, ‘hold them with two fingers by handle’, ‘If you get fingerprints on the glass clean them with this cloth’… His eyes sparkle as he takes in your expression and before he can add a comment or simply ask you for your name you move to table 5 as he had previously instructed. You set the crate down. The glasses rattle softly as if shaken awake from a long and pleasant dream.

White. Everything is white, gold shimmers here and there, a few red roses play hide and seek in the masses of white ones. White table cloths reflect on the white carpet, the white lights – it starts to hurt your eyes and you turn your attention out the window. You and the staff resemble ghosts in the reflection. The city behind the window is blurry, hardly able to make out. Such a big room and outside seems endless…

Unease settles in your abdomen and you gulp. Your thoughts are fuzzy and incoherent as you crouch and take out a few ornate champagne glasses that glimmer in the light and portray your own distorted image. Their handles are sleek and cold, though strangely pleasant. Carefully, you set them down next to the plates and saucers. You do this until the crate is empty and the go ask for more. You move to table 7.

Or could you? Could you actually hurt someone? You can take a gun. You can point it at yourself efficiently too. You set the new crate a bit harsher then intended – a few workers spare you a glance, but don’t comment. If you can destroy yourself…Are you able to destroy anyone else too? And if you can’t now…how long will it be till you can?

You shake your head almost frightened and that train of thought is cut short. You set down each glass with extensive care as if counting the millimeters would somehow distract you from the thoughts that have been plaguing you all week. You focus: it’s made of glass, heavy, resembles a flower as it peaks upwards with its petals sprawled to the sun, sitting exactly two centimeters and five millimeters to the plate and forty five centimeters to the vase of beautiful flowers. Of course, you can’t know if your calculations are correct – they most likely aren’t – but with a new distraction you fill your duty to its perfection. Jazz picks at your ears. It distorts into strange buzzing that almost sounds like the click of the safety of the gun repeating itself over and over again like a mock version of itself, Jane’s choked cries, Piper’s gasps…You jolt and smack the glass, toppling it over.  _Dear God_ , what are you becoming?

Guilt is eating you alive. You thought you were through with this, that you accepted the consequences, that you…Are guilty by association. The glass lies there, thankfully not broken, but in a way it angers you even more.

This is exactly what Moriarty wanted, you think. To eat you alive. Make you fall, he _made_ you fall, but unlike the glass…

You actually broke.

_**November 25 th, 10:23am** _

The room is beautiful. The staff had done their job and deserve an array of applause: when daylight streams through the windows the hall appears livelier, the white and red flowers perk and bloom and the smalls of gold glimmer in crooks and crannies. The city below bustles with life.  A group of musicians make last checkups on their instruments for tonight.

In about 8 hours the most notorious people in Britain will sit in this very room, the topic of discussion never leaving these four walls.

Rita Adams breaks away from the boring conversation with Miss Manager and brings an expensive cup of coffee to her red lips, takes a sip and watches as a few waiters shuffle about, taking orders from other important guests that came in early. Today the restaurant is closed for anyone who doesn’t make the short list of names in Miss Manager’s clipboard, notebook and the blackboard in the break room.

Rita’s eyes narrow and the coffee, despite doused with three tea-spoons of sugar, goes down bitter. Three tables to the right serving one of her business partners stands a girl with a small notepad and a plastic smile. Describing her in general terms is easy: tall or short, eyes big or small, lean arms, dainty fingers, (colour) hair and eyes that seem so far away… But what sparks in Rita’s mind is an image, a perfect still of her walking down the street. Her name, one she remembers on her own and then finds sprawled on the girl's uniform, angers Rita and she sets the cup down on the saucer faster than etiquette allows. Miss Manager jerks, “Rita?” She calls quietly, trying to catch the woman’s gaze. Rita is quick to compose herself and turn to her newly made friend with a smile that had no real affection behind it.

“Say, that girl…” She trails off, motioning with her head to the retreating back of the one she eyed so intently, “Has she been working here long?”

“( _Lastname_ )? _Oh_ , no, hired her a few days ago.” Miss Manager takes in Rita’s features, “I _assure_ you she will _not_ be present during the main event.” 

Rita shakes her head, “Oh no… _No_ _no no,_ let her.” She turns away again, catching as (Lastname) whispers something to the passing waiter, “ _Also_ …I’d like to make additional shifts to the uniform if that is alright.”

“ _Oh_! Absolutely! But nothing _too_ extreme, of course. Won’t be tailored in time.”

“No, nothing like that. Just lose the jackets. I want these girls to show as much skin as possible…You know, to keep the guests entertained.”

**_Same day, 7:00pm._ **

You haven’t seen the guests yet, but the sleek jazz ringing behind the oak white doors and the polite chatter that echoes from the hall informs that the main event had started a bit ago. Only a selected amount of waiters were allowed in early – those who begrudgingly had worked here for the better part of the year or at least half – and you were left behind with a few more girls that seem just as anxious as you. But their anxiety differs somehow. The prospect of dangerous rich men excite them and they hardly contain their squeals as they wonder and chat about what they look like, how they act, who’s dating who…

You sit alone on a nearby chair and hold a golden sprayed train with a certain bitterness. You see yourself in it. The uniforms were changed drastically, going from discreet and professional to high stockings and an open view to your collar bones and a peek into your cleavage, your arms exposed to the warmth of the rooms. You gulp nervously. You don’t understand why Miss Manager had deliberately ordered you to stay, despite just last night stating that after you shift was over you will not be needed for another three days.

The door opens a few waiters fall out carrying a sweet scent of wine and desserts along with them. You hear glasses clink, jazz rings just a bit louder before the door shuts again and the same old buzzing remains. One waitress approaches you with a timid smile – obviously, what she saw pleased her – and stopping in your field of vision she sighs, “Your turn, new girl. You and,” She turns to the two eager girls by the counter, “you two will serve meringues. Remember to say the full name as you set them down.”

You aren’t sure if you are glad to be here or not. Staying in Sherlock’s flat would mean facing him – you had managed to make any interactions with him as short as possible – and you aren’t sure you’re ready to have a normal conversation with him and being with John is simply unbearable… You carefully place small plates on your tray and make your way to the oak doors along with the two girls that push their way to the front. They share a glance, one hooks her fingers around the handle and cranks it, the door opens and the same whiff of wine blows at you.

All of the guests are dressed finely, wearing brands you most likely never even heard before. The jazz flows smooth and eases your nerves – you shoot a look at the performers and send them a small smile, even if they don’t see it. Some tables are already empty – a few business partners stand and discuss one thing or another by an open window with a cigarette either between their teeth or fingers. You find your table full, announce the full name of the snacks and set them down. The guest don’t bat an eye at you, don’t thank nor do they break conversation. You move on.

Your breath hitches in your throat and all the thoughts you had had previously, ones that caused you headaches and resulted in sleepless nights blew away along with the gentle evening breeze out the window. Moriarty sits bored with his plate empty and a glass of bubbling champagne in his hand as he eyes one of his business partners hollowly – you note his slack jaw, the slump in his shoulders and a sort of crooked position he sits in. He stands out like a sore thumb between so many uptight, precise and polite people that give him their absolute and divine attention.

You force yourself to move with a happy step. Confusion sets in your thoughts and you rasp the desserts name, almost forgetting to say it all together. Perhaps the ring of your quiet voice reaches him, perhaps he simply feels your presents, catches a whiff of your perfume or recognizes the arch of your back, but when you turn to eye him again your heart jumps pleasantly as you find him staring shamelessly. Completely engrossed. Some woman leans in and happily explains a funny vacation accident. He can’t keep his tawny eyes away from you.

You push the tray to your armpit and smile when a guest calls your attention. You take out a note and pen, listening to what he has to say whilst you sneak glances at the man in the far off table. You note his jaw lock. His gaze crawls on your skin and you shudder, feeling yourself grow hot as he carefully examines the way the light plays on your collar bones, down down down…His eyes narrow and he leans into his seat, flicking his chin upwards. Not pleased, that much you can tell.

“Will that be all?” You ask. The guest nods and you do as well. Before you can take even take a step back Moriarty flicks his wrist, calling you over. You exhale a hot breath, gulp the lump in your throat and move in. Seeing him made you tingly, numb in the fingers and strangely doused any flame of guilt that burned you from the inside once he wasn’t around. As you approach him he gazes at you in fascination – and in that moment you are no longer _you_ anymore.

You are Lolita.

You deliberately stand closer than normal, whether it is a conscious reaction your body makes or not you don’t quite understand yourself. Either way, you force him to look you up and down, to see every inch of your body before he can see your face. Though it doesn’t bother him, not one bit to be exact, as you note a ghost of a smirk curl at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, sir?”

He smiles – a smile all men smile when they are exquisitely pleased. Moriarty’s jaw slacks and his eyes travel across the table. He frowns when he sees Mr. Business 1 openly gape at you. “More champagne.” Is all James says in a low tone. You scribble it on your notepad.

“Not so fast, little dove.”

You blink at the silly name, your eyes sifting from your pathetic scribble to the woman that sits beside James. Your brows tick in confusion – _where have you seen her before?_ – and she reads your expression, smiles and swirls her glass. The sparkling drink swishes. “Can you stay a bit?” Her eyes narrow, “I haven’t looked at the menu quite yet, but I think I’m interested in…” her eyes sweep across the sleek paper on her plate. She smiles again. “Actually, dear, can you help me pick…?”

_Oh! She was here this morning having breakfast with Miss Manager!_

With a polite smile you move in and recommend what you had learned over hours of repeating. These French names twist your tongue but you manage to pronounce them as smoothly as a brit possibly can. The woman seems pleased, though her attention is hardly directed to you at all. As you focus on selling her on the expensive menu, her eyes gleam at Moriarty with a sort of menacing glare. His fingers tighten around the glass and he sets it down harshly. When you finish naming, you lean out and wait for orders. Again his gaze pierces you, filled with wanton desire and down near boiling rage but his face skillfully masks it with a blank sleek jawed smile.

“Oh, changed my mind.” The woman says, taking a sip of her drink, “But thank you. I will call for you again, later.”

~*~

Dark. Your mind and eyes are clouded by the darkness of where ever you stand, pressed harshly to the wall with your head ablaze with desire. You are unable to recall how this happened – one moment you were walking back to the break room, the next someone harshly pulled on your upper arm, so in fact that you are sure the rough imprint of his hand will leave a blue bruise. Moriarty snatched you up a while ago, pulling you along into somewhere private, away from anyone that dared to ogle at something that quite clearly, in his mind, belongs to him and him alone.

His cologne tickles your nostrils and you hale lungs full of fire, parting the crown of your lashes to look at him: you can barely make out the outline of his body, his breath fanning the small of your neck, lips hovering just above the prickled skin as his fingers slowly crawl up your chest and neck coming to rest on your chin. The touch is so soft that it tickles.

He grips you tightly, his fingers sinking into your flesh and making you gasp, “…Little dove.” He says against your skin, kissing it softly before moving to your ear. The contrast is mind breaking. You gulp. “Are you a bird trapped in a cage now, Lolita?...Or are others simply inclined to give you new names now?”

You shudder, a twinge of fear mixing somewhere in your abdomen as his commanding tone pierces right through you. He presses to your body harder as if it would hurt to pull away. His control weavers uneasily and you feel him watching you closely, like a lion about to strike. His lips kiss the lobe of your ear, and then move down your jaw before he roughly smashes your lips onto his into a passionate kiss that sends sparks behind your closed eyelid.

His hands come to caress your cheeks, the sides of your neck as he pulls out, “ _I don’t like the way they look at you._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my finals are over!!! and though i'm pretty sure i failed one, it feels so good to be back writing! sorry that nothing really happens in this chapter.. this story is turning more psychological than i had first envisioned. im just terrified of making 'love' and 'affection' between the reader and moriarty seem fake, unnatural or rushed...sorry again if you don't like it ;/ since im done with school i'll have way more time to work on this and everything else...im so excited! i have so much planned ;) stay tuned and lemme know what ya think! xx


	20. The rules of affection.

The dusty air makes it hard to breathe, or perhaps it is simply his presence and that burning kiss that leaves tingles on your lips that is the cause of your asphyxiation. Your back, rammed into a nearby wall, turns sore as your muscles tense to keep up right – your hands around his neck, one leg hooked around his waist and he hold you in his hands so tightly that bruises start to form. And you love it, the prickle of pain, the dangerous low tone of his voice and just in how much trouble you’re in. The fabric of his pants press hard into your crotch and the only thing you really want is to take his clothes off. _Off_ , _completely_ , tear them down if you have to. But he keeps you in place; taunting, murmuring something that falls deaf onto your ears against your skin and making it prickle so pleasantly.

James leans into your ear as his fingers dig into the back of your thighs, “Now,” He speaks low, husky, you can feel desire oozing from his voice and with a heated breath you shut your eyes, “You are going to do exactly as I say, (Name).”

**October 15 th, 07:03pm.**

_It’s raining. The pleasant droning and the cracking of the fireplace set you in a state of daze, one you have trouble getting out off. The plush cushions of Sherlock’s couch provide comfort and the blanket wrapped around your shoulders does too- it carries a gentle scent of pinewood and strong cologne you recognize to be Sherlock’s_. This must be his, _you think as your fingers caress its soft surface, though you don’t elaborate any further. Your eyes, at first staring at nothing in particular, finally gaze at the said man himself. Sherlock stands with his back to you, the outlines of his body glowing in calming orange and red colors from the fire. You can tell his hands are hooked together, despite not being able to see it. It’s dark. The power is out._

_You sigh and he perks up, “Why did she do it?” The image of that woman: tall, lanky, dark brown hair tied into a pony-tail and opalescent eyes that were in a permanent glaze from terror and sadness. Perhaps insanity, too. You are obviously referring to the killer that started your relationship with Sherlock and John, even Mrs. Hudson. You don’t feel well, a sudden swelling of your throat makes it hard to breath and you take in a shaky breath. Such gruesome crimes. You would feel sick to your stomach if you were to voice her name, so you refrain, just sink deeper into the couch and patiently wait for the answer._

_“Silly question.” Sherlock says, tilting his head softly to the side to get a better look at you. His voice rings and bounces off the walls, equally as quiet, rasp even, “She said it herself. She wanted to be the star. She wanted attention.”_

_You shake your head, “_ That’s _…that’s not what I mean, Sherlock.” This catches his interest and with a raised brow he fully turns to you. He’s still in his suit. His shoulders are damp and the curls of his hair are flatter than normal. A chill shakes your shoulders. You will have to find a spare shirt at the very least; if not then you will certainly catch a cold. He waits for you to continue, and re-thinking your words carefully you lick the dry bottom of your lip, “I just…You saw her records._ Spotless _. Her parents_ they _…they talked of her_ so _…” Your nails dig into your palm, “_ I… _I guess I phased my question wrong. What_ made _her do it?”_

_“You are the one that studied human nature. You tell me.”_

_“Desire.” You shoot. Sherlock shakes his head._

_“Desire is too whimsical._ Unstable _. It burns out too quick for it to continue over several killings.” He muses, taking leisure steps as he does. Behind the window wind knocks on the glass. “Maybe she was psychotic and just no one knew, maybe she wasn’t—_ no _, she definitely wasn’t. It’s always the simple answer, always the simplest one that no one ever expects.”_

_You frown softly, “What is it…?”_

_“Think about it. The only emotion that can drastically and completely change human nature. The biggest cliché in the world.”_

_“I don’t—“_

_“_ Think _.”_

_There is a pause._

_“Love?”_

|*|

_That’s strange…Why did I…remember that all of a sudden?_

You snap out of it fairly quick and your motions jerk, with a sort-of robotic twist of your hand you set down the small glass of champagne and smile at the man that sent you a weird look. You don’t fail to notice him sneaking a peek at your exposed cleavage and it takes all you have in you to not frown. You straighten your back and circle the table, throwing a few comments when one of the savvy business people asks you about the menu. You do your best to recommend and pronounce the French names, though that one French woman sitting at your table does narrow her eyes at you when you fail to hit the note. Dismissed, you take a cautious step back, make sure your heavy tray will not fall off or awkwardly bend your fingers and with one last polite smile you excuse yourself, reminding them that you are _here for their every need_. That was what the manager had instructed you to say and seeing that this is Moriarty’s crowd, you do not feel all that comfortable.

It is your first instinct to look at him – you can’t help it, or the pleasant jump your heart makes. Memories rush and you feel a bit light-headed, containing a smile and in the back of your mind praying that no one will notice you examine him so carefully. The clock had hit an hour since your last encounter with him, which was in a dark place with no good intentions in mind, and each time you would catch him with the corner of your eye you would get the same tingling sensation that started at your fingertips and spiked all the way to your thighs. You move out of the way of another waitress, still following his every move: he drinks, he sits unimpressed and he sends sarcastic smiles to Mr. Business 1 and that woman. You don’t like her. A twinge of fiery anger spikes in your blood and you gulp it down before it shows on your face. Perhaps he felt your heated stare, because Moriarty shifted his attention from Rita to you and you snappily looked away and continued walking.

James’s eyes trace your every inch and curve looking for any marks he had left. You had covered them all. Pity.

“You seem distracted tonight, James.” Rita pipes up and he has the sudden urge to smash his glass into her forehead. He almost complies, but instead his eyes lazily roll back to his companion and wearing a charming smile he chirps, “I am always distracted. _By you_.”

She knows he is lying and she still can’t help the hopeful glint that reflects from her glasses. This is why Moriarty doesn’t fancy anyone, or anyone’s company. They are all just _so boring_. He looks around the room and all he sees is desperate people vying for his, or any of the four that sit by his table, attention. It’s hopeless. _Pointless_. Engaging in a conversation with a goldfish would be more thoughtful than with Rita Adams or anyone else here. At least you _pretend_ to know what you are doing, _pretend_ to not be completely outwitted. His thoughts take a drift to you. He can at least admire that you are quite willing to take a gun to the head. Maybe he’ll have you have a go at it again in the nearby future. For now he is stuck in this braindead company and wishes for nothing more than for you to come back and break more and more with each sweet word he uttered.

Rita squeezes out a tight smile, “I don’t believe I am a waitress.”

“Well if I looked at you the whole time I would be too obvious.”

|*|

 _“That doesn’t…_ really _make any sense, though…Wouldn’t anger, or_ hate _, be more sufficient?” You shake your head, “I guess it’s just hard to imagine love—“_

 _“-being so cold and cruel?” Sherlock’s voice is low in tone and it sends a shiver down your spine, though that might just be the wet shirt sticking to your chilly skin, “From the way I see,_ and I see it very clearly, _you are looking at it from the wrong perspective. Love changes the fundamental chemicals in human brains because it is so_ warm _and_ fuzzy _and in whichever word Shakespeare chose to describe it.” He spits, “It makes people act over eccentric or not eccentric at all, notice the smallest of details or gloss over all of them completely…There is no rationality when it comes to love. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”_

_You huff, “You make it sound like ‘love’ is some sort of virus…that you’re immune to it.”_

_“That’s because_ it is _and_ I am _.”_

|*|

Once in the break room you push past a couple of excited servers as they idly chat by the entrance and don’t even notice you come in. There’s a strange bitterness on the tip of your tongue, something lodge in your throat that makes it hard to breathe and focus. Your hands tremble and you set down the tray on a nearby table and plop down to the plush couch whose only occupant, for now, is you. You can’t stop thinking about it, cannot stop replaying how his fingers feel on your thighs or how his kisses set you ablaze. Those happy leaps of your heart come along with a twinge of pain and shame, but somehow you manage to ignore it. Perhaps the bright laughter of your co-workers helps you. Perhaps you are too far gone to care anymore.

The servers leave and the door shuts. The air falls still and you take in a deep breath, reaching into your uniforms pocket and trying not to think of what is in there. The cold glass burns in your hot palm as you grasp it and take a closer look. A small bottle of nameless clear liquid. One drop into a drink and it would kill anyone that would taste it.

_“You are going to do exactly as I say, (Name).”_

_“There is no rationality when it comes to love. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”_

You gulp. The contours of the room swim out of focus as you examine the bottle with painful accuracy – the black of your iris starts to sting from staring so intently. Why do you have it? Why did you take it? You were not thinking back then, you are hardly thinking now, you figure, and if it continues like this you will do his every bidding if he shows you even a fraction of that fabricated affection you so crave for. _Love_ …is this love?

You wouldn’t know. Before this…you have never been in love.

Well, there is really no point in you sitting around and contemplating your feelings. Action must be taken, and in a given amount of time. Being late or too early may cause distress, to you or others, and with that thought in mind you safely put the bottle back into your pocket, stand up and stretch your legs. You need to go to the kitchen.

So you do.

Your professor from college once told you that making lists helps focus. Your mind cannot function properly when it is this scattered. Your steps slow and the hallway shifts, strangely at that, seems longer, more eerie than you recall it being just this morning or a couple of hours prior. Lists. _Lists_. **_Focus_**.

The warm yellow lights flicker and dim, the carpeting sinks into your feet and deletes all sounds your footsteps make. It is almost like you are floating. Dizzy, you blink and glance down to make sure that you really are on ground. _Right_. **Lists**.

_“You are going to do exactly as I say, (Name).”_

_Moriarty_. What do you like about him?

You like the way he smiles. Not the genuine kind, one you can only imagine and dream of, but that sort of sinister smirk he sends your way when he is thinks of something – _namely you_ – or how he can cause havoc and get away with it. You like the way he touches you, the rough surface of his fingers that can be so gentle if he wants to and change course in a split second. You like the way his cologne makes you dizzy and how it absorbs all oxygen and makes you reach for him as if your life depended on it. You like the sound of his voice, the curl in his tone or the low note he always finishes when saying your name.

 _Him_. You like him. You know he does not like you back, _but_ …Your eyes roll down to eye the sewn threads of your pocket, carefully tracing the outline of the bottle cap sticking out. But _you_ do. _You_ like him. Isn’t that all that matters?

The sound of glass shattering snaps you out and you jerk, a gasp catching in your throat as rough leather gloved fingers wrap around your chin and pull you forward. A twinge of arousal drops in your abdomen as for a split second you think it is Moriarty again. Once the buzzing dissipates a worried call of your name echoes in the hallway. Your eyes laser focus on bright green ones that gaze at you with unfiltered urgency. Or perhaps it is just those lights playing tricks on you again.

“— _that_. Why did I notice that?”

“ _Sherlock_ …Jesus, let her go…”

You take a second to collect yourself and your expression falls from surprise to confusion as Sherlock releases you and steps away. A whiff of cool air tickles your shoulders and chest and you narrow your eyes – did they just come in from outside? You glance at John, standing just to the side with his arms crossed over his chest and looking just as worried as the infamous detective did a second ago. Sherlock fixes his scarf and scans you up and down one more time before turning to his flat-mate, “Did you see that?”

John’s eyebrows shoot up, “ _What_? You mean you jumping her like a burglar or something?”

“No _no_ , that’s not it…” Sherlock snaps his fingers, “It’s your hair, isn’t it? Did you cut it recently? Mess with it? _No_ , not that… _Do you_ —“

“ _Sherlock_ …”

You take in a breath, “What are…you two doing here?” It suddenly dawns onto you and your teeth clench, “And how _in the hell_ did you get in here?” Your voice falls into a harsh whisper and you whip your head back to see if no one saw them.

“Back door, but that’s hardly important…” Sherlock mumbles, taking a step closer to you. Fear prickles your skin along with the cold air around him as he examines you once again, “There’s something different about you…I just _can’t_ …” He points at your leg, “ _Leg_. Wrong.” He turns to John, “Do you see this?”

“Honestly? _No_.”

“I don’t understand. You’re like a street sign flashing red.”

“ _Street sign_? That’s lovely…”

John steps in, “Listen, you’ll interrogate her later, right now we have more _pressing_ matters _. Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”_

“ _What_?” He snaps, “ _Oh_ , yes.” He glances at you, “Moriarty is here and he is going to murder someone. We are here to stop him.”

_“You are going to do exactly as I say, (Name).”_

Not Moriarty. **You**.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry....i don't know...i don't like this chapter... i'm sorry if it seems weird or something...i just...hmmm...i don't know it's just so iffy to me...apologies.. i feel like i'm off my game... i will try even harder for the next chapter!!! i'm just so distracted with life and tumblr and games and summer and the looming doom of the future and college and ugh  
> so sorry, again. all of your comments are so sweet and encouraging i'm really scared to show you something that is clearly not my best work.  
> thank you for all the comments, kudos and etc... i will see you in the next (and hopefully better) chapter <3


	21. A formula for happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> qucikie note! features some disturbing themes (i guess)  
> more notes at the end of the cha...

[music.](https://youtu.be/Ub-U19BWidg?list=RDUb-U19BWidg)

 

As a kid he would often stay back and just observe rather than take part: was it conversation, some sort of sports activity or animals, _humans_ , in pain. It was all relatively the same to him. He noted humans having this sort of dramatic, explosive and consuming reaction to hurt or sadness. It was a process: first the muscles in the face stretch into surprise, eyes stinging with unfiltered emotion that he, for one, could never understand, before crumbling, the pale skin dyeing itself in blotches of fiery red and then the person would grasp something – _it is a reflex_ , he realized – whether it be their wounded hand or leg, or simply the place of their heart, the insides of their soft palms or a nearby surface. Tears would often follow - the most _expressive_ show of pain.

Animals did not shed tears. They had their very own unique act. For a small curious boy of 11 years old, or possibly younger, it almost looked graceful. The back arches and those dark black eyes sear the surrounding area; the fur falls in specs of sticky red blood and the whole body trembles as if it would somehow help shake it off. Insects released high-pitched cries when heated to a certain temperature. Cats would shriek, dogs would whimper. Their reaction mimicked that of a persons the most.

He was not much of a talker really, hardly as in tuned with human emotions and not even half as charismatic as he was set to be that many years later. James Moriarty liked to watch. Watch his mother smile and hum, watch the kids at school talk and laugh, watch his teachers write on the blackboard one thing or the other expecting each and every student to follow in their example and copy the work down in their notebooks. _So many feelings_. Some were less noticeable: some kids were fairly good at hiding their emotions, desires, frustrations. Not that he cared all that much. He just couldn’t help but notice. It is human nature to adapt. That’s what he read in a history book once. It was not easy to adapt when he couldn’t understand why his mother cried and screamed every night. Why kids at school sometimes pushed him into corners and gleefully trotted off. Why teachers regarded him with such gentle, pitying stares.

He preferred silence. _Well_ , perhaps not entirely. He had a favorite activity when he was young. After getting home and examining his bruises, pushing them, watching as the blood behind his purpled skin seeped and broke and the hiss of pain shot up from wherever, he’d take a small jar from the cabinet and go outside to enjoy the weather. He’d catch a small insect, was it a butterfly or some other unlucky creature, and trap it. He’d screw the lid shut tightly, find a spot where sunlight beamed the harshest and set his experiment there. In complete silence, _peace_ as had he named it, he watched the insect, after some time, smack into the glass in an attempt to escape, cramp its legs…Until it would fall flat on its back, dead. Burned, boiled, dried alive.

It was enlightening. A sense of untamed awe would wash over him when the cycle of dying started and he would hold his breath until it finished. _Happiness_. This was as close to happiness as he could ever feel.

When he was a teen it got easier. To fix a mask. A new face that showed everything he did not, _could not_ , feel so masterfully that no one dared to question the genuinely of his confessions, the humor in which he spoke in, the love he felt for animals or girls. He was fairly popular growing up. How could he not? He was _so_ charming.

He may not have been if not for Carl Powers.

But it was still different. On the outside it was your typical teenager with a soft spot for hooliganism. Broken entries, speeding tickets, underage drinking and visiting places he should not. And it was all boring. Dreadfully and absolutely and he would get more and more frustrated as time went by and eventually he would break and destroy everything he touched in the privacy of his own home, his own room, his own company. To a normal teen James’s life looked like a drama, a movie and they would regard him as the coolest boy in their class. And that’s exactly what it was – a movie, carefully crafted and fake to the very core. James Moriarty did not care about his current girlfriend, he did not care about his best friend, mother, or how many laws he broke and was yet to break. Time always went so slow. There was a terrible lack of color in his scheme.

And yet again, it was all because of Carl Powers. When Moriarty had had enough of the boys teasing, feeling such an overpowering spurge of anger he simply could not control, and as he watched Carl’s lifeless body lay still, for the very first time in his life he understood when Melissa had said ‘ _Such a pretty shade of blue_!” or his mother, “ _What a gentle purple. It suits you_.”. The world made sense. James was not _staying_ alive, he _was_ alive. All prior experiences of tormenting local animals and bugs were nothing compared to this ultraviolet power.

It was his most cherished memory for many years. He kept Carl’s shoes and made sure to keep them as good as new. It was his strange way of keeping that memory real, framed in time in a keepsake of white trainers.

But that was it. Years passed. School became college, girlfriends came and went. His life fell in a never ending cycle of normal human interactions and behaviors and it was _suffocating_. Wake up. Breakfast. Kiss girlfriend on cheek. Get dressed. College. Lunch. Friends. Work. Go home. Dinner. Have sex. Adderall. Study. Sleep. Wake up. Breakfast. Kiss girlfriend on cheek. Get dressed. College. Lunch. Friends. Work. Go home. Dinner. Have sex. Adderall. Study. Sleep. Wake up. Breakfast. Kiss girlfriend on cheek. Get dressed. College. Lunch. Friends. Work. Go home. Dinner. Have sex. Adderall. Xanax. Study. Sleep. Wake up. Breakfast. Kiss girlfriend on cheek. Get dressed. Xanax. College. Lunch. Friends. Xanax. Work. Go home. Dinner. Have sex. Adderall. Xanax. Study. Sleep…

“I’m worried about you, James.”

His hand halts and he loosens his grip on the tea spoon; for a second he watches his refection in the swirling hot liquid before glancing up at his most recent lover – Violet. With pretty dark brown hair and big doe eyes, a few freckles kissing her cheeks here and there she gazes at him with only love and concern from the other side of the table, careful to trace his every move, observe his reaction – _will he be defensive? Or calm?_ With James it’s a surprise, though on most occasions he is fairly collected. Violet’s arms cross over her chest. The chatter of the café – a popular student destination, most come here from his college – becomes louder as a laughing group of freshman burst through the door and shake off the drops of rain from their hair.

“It’s just that you…” Seeing as she got his attention, her tone softens and through a half lidded gaze she traces the heavy bags under his eyes, “-are not sleeping again. You seem agitated…I understand that it’s your last year – it must be so stressful for you and all…And _I know_ that you don’t like to talk about it, _but_ …I can tell that you’re not okay.” She leans in, “ _You can tell me_ , you know. _You can tell me everything_.” She murmurs.

The corner of James’s lip quirks upwards and he glances down again with a faint shake of his head, “It’s nothing, really. I’m just busy.”

There is a pause. Violet frowns, “Are you… _sure_?” She’s trying not to put too much pressure on him. She thinks he will shut her down if he does.

He feels irritated, but doesn’t show it, merely gazes at her with the same affection she is gazing at him. He knows she won’t leave him alone. That’s why he tolerates her – she’s persistent, she knows what she wants and how to get it. But Violet is weak. _Ordinary_. Just like everyone else. He tried, he really did try to break her out her human shell, he even showed her a snippet of who he actually is through rough sex and hurtful words. But she is ignorant willfully. She accepts him and she loves him and he despises her for it.

“I’m sure.” He says. She doesn’t ease up, merely nods stiffly and leans out. For a while they listen to the rain hit the glass, savor the delicious tastes of their drinks and eye other customers chat idly. He can sense something is bothering her: she keeps jerking, staring, biting on her bottom lip and tapping her fingers on the side of the porcelain cup. It’s annoying. “ _Violet_ …” James calls her and she perks up with an owlish blink, “If you want to ask something then just ask.” He reassures her with a shy smile. She reconsiders.

“We’ve been dating for a while now and… _Well_ …I don’t want to pry, but I’m really worried about you. _Truly_.” It intrigues him. He urges her to continue and almost feels pleased for keeping her around, “It’s gotten worse _. You’ve_ gotten worse. Does it, perhaps _, have something to do with your mother_?”

Annoyance. He doesn’t feel hurt or angry, juts annoyed that she brought _that woman_ up again. He doesn’t care about her. Why is Violet so fixed on his mother? It is not the first time she had asked him about her so delicately as if it was some sort of touchy subject. Perhaps to ordinary people it is. To James it is just another stranger.

He frowns – an act he must keep if he wants to ‘ _fit in_ ’ – and takes a sip of his drink, “Why are you bringing her up again?”

 A fire dances in Violets eyes. He can almost see the gears in her head turning – _finally! She found the root of his issues_! is what he assumes she is thinking, and by the way she catches her breath his suspicions are correct, “She’s in St. Jude, right? The mental hospital?”

“… _And_?”

“ _And_ when was the last time you visited her?” Violet is getting worked up – her voice is low and harsh and she bores into him, trying to make him understand the problem she sees, “I think, _no_ , I _believe_ that that’s the reason. Maybe you don’t feel the need to see her, but on a subconscious level it’s bugging you.” He brings the cup to his lips- “ _If you’re scared to go alone I can go with you._ ” – and smashes it down on the saucer.

“ _I’m. Not. Going_.” His jaw locks and faint traces of anger shine in his eyes. She recoils. It is rare to see James mad. He is such a compassionate man.

**_2006, June 13 th_ **

Violet insisted on going on a trip. _Holiday will do us both some good_ , she had said and following his pattern he agreed with a loving smile and started packing. She insisted on driving. He knew she was acting suspicious – rarely anything escapes his eye – but for her to go to such lengths…In a way he was so _so_ proud of her for being that ambitious, but at the same time overwhelming rage struck his body like lightning as he read the carved letters on the big gate ‘ _Saint Jude Mental Asylum’_.

Violet keeps her hands firmly on the wheel of the car as James eyes the gate and the looming building behind it. Her breathing is rapid and her palms clamp with sweat, nervously and with a heart beating so loudly she is scared he can hear it, she turns to look at him. He says nothing, but she does catch the tremble in his body that she mistakes for sorrow.

“ _James_ …” She calls tenderly, wanting to reach out to him but refraining, “ _Please_ …I think this is what you need. _Please_.”

He should have expected this, just…It is something Violet would never do unless she was completely desperate _. Is she?_

She yanks the keys out of the engine and with one last look directed his way she opens the cars door and gets out. Humid summer air greats her skin. It’s hot, though cloudy. She shuts the door harshly. James doesn’t want to follow, but does so anyway. It is hard to focus. To think properly, coldly, _logically_. Violet looks like a walking neon sign that flashes in alluring colors every two to three seconds. She’s within arm’s reach and if he could just---no. _No_. Restraint. He has shown so much restraint over the years. All of that would go to waste if he touched her.

The trip to the mental hospital is cut short by his temper as when he watches Violet talk to the receptionist, feels the cold air pick on his hot skin, catches the pitiful glance the nurse sends him he explodes with a frustrated huff and his jaw locks so tightly his teeth grit. Violet whips to him, about to ask what is wrong when he snaps at her, “You want to see her? _Go_. I’ll wait in the car.” He adds quieter. Stunned she is unable to move for only a moment and it is enough time for him to trot out the ventilated building into the June heat. He is quick to make his way down the steps, a strained call of his name echoes but he doesn’t falter, simply continues to walk. Rushed footsteps behind him and he, wanting to avoid her grasp, turns left sharply and goes down a gravely road.

St. Jude is secluded. Tall, looming trees surround it and there is a small village only a couple of miles away. The drive here is long and tiring and it is so quiet in these areas that one might go mad if he has not already. It’s empty. Even inside the mansion there were hardly any people inside, just a couple of white robed nurses and a few older men lounging and staring into space. The grass crunches beneath his feet as he continues to go closer and closer to the woods, closer to the thick roots and past the sign that says ‘ _No trespassing!_ ’. He had hoped she wouldn’t follow him. That he could shake off this anger in solitude and plot something in return for this stunt.

The forest seeps with dazing scents. Violet calls his name again and that uncontrollable anger sparks. It’s a mindless reaction as he turns to her, his hand clasping her jaw and ramming it straight to the nearest thick with enough force to make his shoulder sting with pain trunk. A splat. There is a gurgle but all he can really see is the muscles of his fingers tense and relax and tense again as sticky red liquid pours over. Some specs touch his lips, the side of his shirt, but most fall onto the bark like one of Goya’s paintings. The anger dissipates and melts into that lone forgotten feeling.

 _Happiness_.

He spends a long time in that forest like a curious child examining each and every curve, each and every angle, the stream of blood, the inside of the brain, awes at the expression of frozen shock. When he finally does emerge his heart had already slowed the erratic beat, his lungs have inhaled enough of the iron taste yet he continued to shine with untamed joy and on his way back he walked with a jump in his step. _This feeling_ …He had almost forgotten it. His hands are still red but he doesn’t mind, nor care at the moment. His clothes are ruined, the corner of his lip is dirtied with dry blood yet it is quirked upwards into a grin. No one is around. No one would probably find her either.

He was about to cut the corner when he heard voices. _One_ namely. It is question.

_“Are you ready, Piper?”_

He pokes his head out, making sure no one will see him: at the steps stand two girls, hand in hand, no older than eighteen. One is gazing down, counting the dirt on her shoes, whilst the other, one the voice belongs to no doubt, looks at her friend with hurt and affection, gripping her hand as if her life would depend on it. “I’m here _. It’s okay_. Your sister will be happy to see you.”

At the time, a twenty three year old James Moriarty, with the blood of his girlfriend on his hands and dopamine flooding his veins, has no idea that the girl to whom the voice belongs to is---

“Thank you, ( _Name_ ).”

 **You**.

**_2 0 1 1_ **

“…I suppose that’s it, _huh,_ Sherlock? The problem… _The final problem_.”

The sun clouds with dark grey smoke as do those deep brown eyes as they stare directly into forest green ones without any sort of conflict or unease. Moriarty sits slumped on the cold cemented edge of the building, watching Sherlock with curiosity as his tone riddles with playfulness – though one must not be fooled, Jim is as serious as it gets. Their friendly afternoon chatter had taken its turn for the worse. Your name slipped someone’s lips, whether it was one or the others it hardly matters, followed by eerie stillness and an uncomfortable flame, one tasting like anger, sparking in both of their chests.

Sherlock’s hands hook behind his back as the flaps of his coat sway from the breeze. Cars honk from below. He narrows his eyes at Moriarty, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Jim shrugs, “No surprise there.” He says offhandedly, lazily coming to stand, “you really were never the brightest. You just like to pretend, don’t you? The _great_ _Sherlock Holmes!_ _One big fake_! I guess you really _can_ trust the newspapers these days, _huh_?” He pretends to think, pinches his chin for comedic effect and stares into the distance. Moriarty does not stick to those thoughts for much longer and before his nemesis can fire back he takes a leisure step forward, “I mean, _come on_ , Sherlock,” he starts. One step, two, three, “Who’s the biggest liar here?”

“ _What are you talking about_?”

Moriarty smiles. Sherlock’s patients is running low, he can tell by the tick of his brow and the thin line of his lips, and a delighted squeal squeezes his throat but he surpasses it. Another light shrug, as if whatever they are talking about is no more important than the weather, “ _I’m just saying_! Pay closer attention to your surroundings…” He trails off, “Because… _I think your friends with fallen angels_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! thank you so much for the kind comments. they really inspired me to work harder.  
> now, i have a couple of things to cover:  
> 1) Moriarty's age. In this story he is 28. In the cannon he is around 33, but if I were to take his real age it wouldn't work for what I have in store for future chapters...  
> 2) ...speaking of future chapters! we're gonna go about this in a very interesting way...almost like a loop, i suppose? what you read at the end was the inevitable future that WE WILL COME BACK TO in other chapters, but first we will cover what happens in the months leading up to that...i have a lot planned so it won't be a bore, i assure you! i just thought that pacing it this way would be more interesting.  
> 3) JM's backstory. Completely made up. I wrote it because Sherlock has one, but JM doesn't. it ain't fair. how is he supposed to be a fleshed out character when we don't know what happened before he was who he was? well, now we know.  
> all for now! hope you enjoy...love you all xx


	22. [ a small note ]

Hello everyone! I know no one likes updates without an actual chapter, so I'll keep it brief.

The truth is, I'm really broke. I'm also starting college soon, and extra cash is something I really need. This is a 'small note', however, and I won't go into any juicy details for that matter alone. The main gist is: if you like what I do and do what I like (uh?), please, if you have any change to spare, click [_**HERE**_](https://ko-fi.com/A7418K3) and leave a coffee. Really, every penny helps. If you don't have any money, I understand, but if you can please spread the word. I really don't like asking for anything in life. I enjoy putting out content and I am beyond happy that people actually read and are happy because of it.

Updates will continue as usual, don't fret. I'll keep on writing no matter what <3


	23. Not a superhero movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quickie note!: a bit sensitive themes during the middle??? idk...  
> also this chapta a beast

Your expression portrays urgency, or is it frustration? Perhaps a mixture of both and perhaps that is the exact reason Sherlock seems to notice everything about you. From the smallest of details: the chipped nail polish, the slightly messy hair, lips a pretty rosy hue from biting too hard… Can he see the imprints of your teeth? If he focuses hard enough he might, but something is pulling him away and drastically so. Is it the pale lights? They make your skin glisten, turn cold somehow, even tired. Or is it the dull mesh of your uniform and the hallway? You almost melt into the walls with clothes so plain, expression so blank. He and John must stand out weirdly, he thinks, but again, he is drawn where the light plays circles on your legs, hands, and the side of your waist… _Waist_. Why waist? He does not understand and he frowns. There is a strange buzzing in the air, echoes of jazz and chatter and clanking of silverware. And… _what else_? He closes his eyes, the world falls dark and he is transported somewhere different, somewhere he has yet to visit. The room is large and airy and he breathes in the scent of fine wine and desserts, catches snippets of gossip. He turns. The guests tap their foots to the sound of music. Heels click. Glasses clank together and a drop of champagne spills down the wrist of an elderly woman with white pearls around her neck. He turns again. Waiters brush past him and finally, _finally_ he notes a familiar figure in the far back, he hears his chair scrape the floor and the man stands up accompanied by a woman with a bright red sign above her head.

 _Rita Adams_.

They are talking, secretly whispering like two lovers wishing for nothing but to be left alone. Moriarty holds her hand tenderly, barely touching her, but her fingers cling to him as if afraid that once he lets go she will **_never_** have the chance to hold him again. Her glasses reflect the image of Moriarty’s smile. Heads tilted downwards he tells her something, but Sherlock is too far away to figure out what. Focus. _Listen_. His vision blurs, the scenery around fades into a colorful Picasso painting as the only important people shine out. As if an animated movie, Sherlock’s mind repeats what Moriarty said to Rita. His lips move but no sound comes out. _Again. Again. Again_. It feels as if he is drawn closer, he can hear a repeating whisper that simply wants to be heard. Sherlock frowns. _Focus_. Again. He can hear….

Your voice?

“ _Sherlock_!” He snaps his eyes open and feels dropped into reality with a harsh thud. His head pounds for a brief moment and those dilated pupils laser focus on you wearing the same strange, unreadable expression that is a mixture of any and every human emotion. Your arms had crossed over your chest – defensive? Impatient? He is suddenly annoyed. He was so close to figuring it all out.

“Yes, what is it?” His tone is harsh and you jerk softly. Your brows knit together.

“Did you…” You seem to debate your question for a moment. Lastly, you shake your head, “Never mind...” You mumble with a sigh. Your attention falls on John, “So, you know who the next victim is…?”

“By the time it should be Rita Adams.” Sherlock answers for his companion, still fully focused on you. He can hear John grumble something under his breath, but it’s hardly important. Your teeth grit at the name. Why did they do that? A secret glance at Sherlock and you instantly look away again. Do you know something? His eyes narrow.

“And… _how_ exactly do you plan to stop him?” You ask hurriedly.

“Simple. I walk in and—“

“You can’t do that!”

“…Why not?”

“ _Because_ , Sherlock, you are the most recognizable face in London.” You state.

A twinge of pride erupts in his chest and he can’t help the tiny smirk that plays on his lips. Sherlock sends a knowing look to John, “Told you.” Is all he says and the doctor sighs. But that pride is short lived as everything falls into place again. There is a growing feeling in him, though what he can’t say or simply doesn’t want to. Affection is a chemical defect found on the losing side, he reminds himself.

 _Affection_? What brought that up all of a sudden?

“John.” Sherlock calls, “Go scope out the area for possible entries that won’t turn too many eyes.”

John stares, “Wouldn’t…(Name) do a better job of that--?”

“You’re a doctor. If you can find your way around a human body, I trust you will do a fine job of navigating a building. We’re wasting time. _Go_.” A clever thing to mention his partner’s medical days. John Watson doesn’t spare a second to doubt anything Sherlock had said and with a curt nod, an unreadable look your way, he leaves you and Sherlock alone. For a while the only thing clear are John’s footsteps and the growing tension in the air. The two of you stand close, yet far enough to feel safe in one’s personal space. What would happen if he invaded it? The last time he did you were not happy, but his gut feeling tells him that he should try again. _Gut feeling_ …preposterous. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t listen to gut feeling.

Finally, the two of you are left alone. You grow stiff under his gaze. The hallway turns eerie and ominous behind you. Sherlock’s expression softens and he takes a small step forward, his head lowers and his eyes trace every detail of your face with urgency, “ _Are you…alright_?”

You are visibly surprised. Your lips part to speak but no sound comes out and you shut them again. There is a flash of sadness in your eyes, perhaps shame. He wants to touch you. Feel if your skin is as cold as it appears to be, but refrains. You wouldn’t like that. Your shoulders shake in a shrug, “I _suppose_ …I’m just…worried.” You murmur, “But… _Thank you_. For asking.”

He nods. He doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t question further either. No matter now. What’s important is to save a life. He will wonder about you later.

|*|

There is a second hall, smaller in size and with a more cozy feeling. The tall walls are dyed mellow earth tones and the wooden chairs that normally stand on ground are lifted, reversed and put on the tables. Scents and snippets of laughter and music leak from the walls – the party is just in the other room. A tray of sparkling glasses sit patiently, glimmer in the dimmed warm yellow lights and reflect your image. You take one, one full with blood red wine that tastes just as sweet as it looks. The smell of alcohol hits your nose, for a moment you stare at the swirling liquid without really thinking anything. Your heart is still pounding; it hasn’t stopped since your encounter with Sherlock which was roughly twenty three minutes ago. You have no idea where he is. He had told you he will text you if needed, but you have a feeling he will not. He doesn’t want you to get hurt, that much you know, but the way he was looking at you…So gently, so precisely as if trying to map out your face and recall it once needed in striking detail…

You inhale a deep breath and push those lovely green eyes to the back of your head. The small bottle in your pocket is like an alien objects. Sometimes it’s painfully cold, sometimes it’s smoldering hot. It almost seems like it doesn’t want you to forget that it is there, waiting to be used. It flashes like a street sign. You crack a small, ironic smile _. Street sign_. Isn’t that what Sherlock had called you? If only he knew _, if only he knew_ …There is no adrenaline rush this time. It feels natural, abnormally so. You take the bottle and it feels like it’s molded for your hand, unclasp it and spill it into the glass. Through your whole encounter with Sherlock and John you didn’t even once think not to go through with the plan. You aren’t thinking of backing out now either.

Rita _does not feel real._ She feels like a character from some play you saw a long time ago, possibly at ninth grade and you only vaguely remember the narrative. With that train of thought you neatly set the glass back down on the tray and make a mental note to recognize the poisoned one from the good ones. They all have red wine swishing inside them. It’s almost impossible to tell which is which. _Rita Adams_ …If someone had asked you, completely offhanded, could you kill her, you would most likely say ‘ _yes’_. After all, she is only a character. No value will come or go in her death. Another actor will take her place, or she will be deleted from the story completely. In this case…deleted. Delete. _Delete_. Delete this strange feeling in your chest that makes your hands quiver and your throat dry.

You don’t have time to worry about yourself now. The deadline is approaching. If you don’t leave now, you will be late, and being late is not an option. Punctuality is pushing fate into the right direction.

You are about to push your fingers under the heavy tray but the creaking of the door stops you; you whip your head back, through a row of tables and chairs and dust particles dancing in the air you meet face to face with a strangely familiar man that tickles your memory, but doesn’t jog it. You frown. Your eyes roam him up and down – he’s a guest, you conduct. You take a step away from the tray and tilt your head to the side questioningly, almost forgetting to fix a friendly and inviting smile.

“Hello, sir.” You greet. Your voice bounces off the walls. “I’m sorry to say that guests aren’t allowed here. Did you get lost on your way back to the party?”

The man, much older, with heavy wrinkles under his eyes and a smile that seems all but friendly, takes a leisure step forward and the oak doors fall shut behind him with a silent sweep. His eyes narrow at you as if he is making sure of something, lastly he gives a curt nod more to himself than you, “I knew I saw a familiar face…”

Your brow ticks up before you can stop it. You don’t like the way he examines you. Trying to gain back control, you clear your throat, “Sir, you _can’t_ be here. If you will allow me, I can escort you back to the main event—“

“You probably don’t remember me.” He cuts you off. His hands hook behind his back and in a leisure pace he approaches you, maneuvers the lines of complex table placings and every obstacle in his path. As he appears closer and closer you start to put the pieces back together, some sort of image starts forming in your mind, one closely resembling a lobby of a pricey hotel you used to work in. It all clicks in place and your eyes widen. You hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time – granted, you were scared out of your wits for poor Jane’s life and trying _not_ to get shot by one of Moriarty’s snipers. “To think…” His eyes fall and his arms come undone, they extend like an invitation for a hug but it’s more awe like than anything, “That James would keep you _all to himself_.”

A cold shudder of fear creeps up your spine and you feel the oxygen lock and squeeze in your lungs. The way he said it… low and dark, you don’t like it. You don’t like it.

**_Elsewhere._ **

The clock continues to tick without mercy and Moriarty has to bite his tongue as he flips his wrist to eye his watch. Late. He doesn’t like late. Late means not according to plan. If the thread is not ready the whole web falls apart – after all, if there’s a gaping hole in the middle how will the fly get trapped? Impossible. He’s not angry though, perhaps a bit annoyed, but he controls his façade perfectly and pretends to be completely engrossed in what Rita is spouting about. _Oh_ , the way her eyes sparkle. He loves it. So full of hope and promise for the future. She’s talking about the company again, _his company_ , and how much she adores it. Truly, he believes her. And truly, he doesn’t care.

He downs his champagne and sets it the empty glass on a nearby table by the railing. Outside is chilly, the nights air is crisp but tinted with nicotine and unpleasant blabbering from within. Moriarty had closed the balcony’s door when he brought Rita here. No one followed them, perhaps no one dared. His hands burn in anticipation, the beat of his heart quickening as he can almost taste it. _Taste it_ …Taste what? Bland champagne and bloodlust? Those burning hands of his snake around her waist, his fingers digging into the small of her back as he pulls her closer to his chest. Her breath hitches, the skin of her cheeks dyes a darker shade – he can tell, though it is dark. He smiles at her, a smile that holds no good intentions, though to the less aware appears almost sexual. Then he looks away into the city. He lets her have this moment, a moment of bliss and he knows that if he looks back she will kiss him. He can feel it. It’s ecstatic. The faraway lights shine so pretty. Like stars if stars were within his reach.

“Look _down_ and _around_ , Rita…” He starts, his voice throaty and it sends a shiver down her spine, “And tell me… what do you see?”

“James…?” A tilt. Her voice tilts in pitch, in raw emotion at the end and it sounds prettier than any opera.

“Because I see…” He hums, “ _Our future_.”

For better balance he takes a sudden step back with a wicked grin and the hand that warmed her lower back pushes her hard and over the railing. There is only one desperate yelp and it fades into the music too quick to be properly enjoyed. One more name to cross out the list. Poor Sherlock, even when James is late the detective still isn’t on time.

No matter now. No rush. All is left is to find you.

 ** _Back to you_**.

It happens too quick for you to fully weight the situation at its face value: one moment he is spouting sweet words meant to coo you into his embrace, promises of protection and affection, two things James could _never_ provide, and the next his old fingers are digging into your shoulder. Fear immobilizes you, or perhaps it is simply his tight grip that makes your bones ache and your lungs burn from loss of breath. You hold it in. You can’t stand the taste of his cologne. And through this interaction he still remains oddly pleased, annoyed, but his eyes portray sick content with watching your face morph from confusion to panic. Disgust piles, it rises all the way to the back of your throat and you have you clench your jaw afraid to spill all over. He pulls you closer and your first instinct – to push him away – kicks in but all you give is a meek shove and he hardly moves.

His chest rumbles with rich laugher and your skin breaks into dewy cold sweat, “No need to play games, child. There are many, _many_ girls like you behind those doors simply begging to be in your place right now.”

“Then let them.” You spit out and yank your shoulder out his grip. Again, the attempt is futile.

“Nonsense,” He shakes his head, leaning in. The room spins. The contours of the world blur and in the warm light you make out your terrified reflection in his eyes. He brushes past your shoulder, straight to your ear, “ _I want some_ thing _that belongs to James._ ”

All thoughts are wiped clean as a soft gush of hopeless air leaves your parted lips and you feel numb all over. Your body tingles unpleasantly, where his lips hoover bugs start crawling down your neck and into the very core of your being, mind, it’s infectious and you recoil. There is a split second of absolute dread before the world shines brilliant neon that snaps you so rigid you don’t know what you are doing. With a harsh push he stumbles back; the pulsing in your ears deletes all of his words, though his lips continue to move. He snarls. Wasting no time your hand reaches for a something – _anything_ – that has enough weight to fend off a hungry lion and what you grasp is a crystal glass that swishes happily with red wine _and—_

Smash it straight into the side of his head.

He tumbles back with a surprised yell. Your heart hammers hitting your ribcage and for a moment you worry it might pop out. You stare at your hand: the glass is broken, only but the shaft left, and the skin, the insides of your nails are sticky and red. Slowly, almost mechanically you come to look at him: he’s picking shards of glass from his forehead – there is a small cut to the right – and admits the wine deep dark red blood gushes and stops just as quick. His focus falls from the dull pain to you and you gasp.

“ _You ins_ \---“

A high pitched gurgle comes from the back of his throat, one that sounds so weak and helpless that your hand slowly falls to your side and what’s left of the glass falls from the loose grip of your fingers. You take a cautious step back and nearly lose your balance. His eyes follow you like a wounded scared animal, tracing every jerk your shoulders, fingers, lips make. His fingers dance on the surface of his neck in a light caress and he clears his throat. Your shoulder slump. Again, he repeats the motion but a bit more frantic. A wheeze. The whites of his eyes tints with a sudden redness and you feel sick to your stomach again. Your eyes shoot to the tray of glasses.

“N- _No_ …-“You utter, looking back at him “I- _I_ didn’t… _I_ —“ You shake your head. Waves of hotness ripple through your body and a sudden sting shoots up your eyes, filling them with opalescent, salty tears that shine brilliantly as they roll down your cheek, “ _N-o_ …You _weren’t_ …I— _couldn’t_ …” Your voice drowns in his sharp breaths and you watch the tips of his lips turn a frosty blue.

But his eyes. Deep blue hate filled eyes with silver threads around the pitch black iris that shrinks and shrinks by the second, stare at you so maliciously that you wonder is he trying to engrave them into your mind. Grey clouds roll over their surface with promise of rain that refuses to fall. A cold shudder shakes your body and the tiles beneath you turn into cement and stone, the warm chandelier’s replaced by bleak daylight. A stench of chemicals and a strange mold smell tickles the tip of your tongue and you need to get out. A sudden revelation: the forest oozes with dazing scents and you hug your jacket closer, a whisper falling from your lips, a desperate prayer as you examine the stone steps you stand on. Your eyes go up, up and up and you freeze: there someone stands, far away by the gate next to a bright yellow beetle, staring right back. You can’t make it out fully. The stature and square shoulders inform of it being a man, but the redness of his shirt and corner of his lip…you frown. The stranger doesn’t stick around for any longer, simply lowers his head and goes inside his car. Before long he drives off, leaving but a trail of dark smoke behind.

The memory replays again. The stature of a man, square shoulders, dark hair, dark eyes, red shirt—

Someone shakes you and your heart leaps in your chest. The pleasant buzzing of the forest is replaced by the eerie stillness of the room you stand in. Fingers wrap around your jaw and forcefully turn your head. The same familiarity of a memory tickles from within and for a second, through the curtain of tears, you fully belief that man you saw so many years ago has come to visit you in some sort of strange stress induced hallucination. Your face crumbles and you surpass a sob that squeezes your throat. Your legs shake again and you nearly tumble over.

“ _There there_ ,” The voice is strikingly familiar. Your breath hitches. “why thrown a temper tantrum, little Lo? I say you…Did I decent job. Obvious novice work, but I’ll let it slide. You’re still learning.”

A clash of relief and complete panic hits your chest and you fight to not release a strangled scream. Your fingers hook around Moriarty’s wrist; he notes this action at ticks a brow. Your other hand slowly rises to wipe away the new batch of tears along with their tracks.

“ _Shh, shh_ …No need for fireworks, lover.” Jim reassures, “Marcus had it long coming if you ask me.”

“ _Get away from her_.”

You jolt and snap your head to the entrance: Sherlock Holmes stands strong and tall as his eyes stay unmoving from his arch nemesis. Moriarty doesn’t react for a moment, as if he’s savoring the silence, savoring your pathetic tears, savoring how Sherlock is ready to bounce to your aid at a moment’s notice. It’s amusing. His first soft expression slowly morphs into a lazy smirk and he sends one last unreadable look your way, accompanied by a wink, and releases his hold on you completely. You stumble back.

“ _Well, well well_ , if it isn’t the Great Sherlock Holmes!” Jim starts, “ _Oh_ , me and Lo? We were just ‘ _bantering’_ before you showed up. Say, have you ever examined a dead body?- _Wait_! Don’t answer that, of course you have _you freak_.”

Sherlock turns to you. His face immediately stiffens, eyes glazing over with unfiltered worry as he extends his hand to you, “( _Name_ ),” He says calmly, “come here.”

“Now why would she do that?” Moriarty interjects loudly. “Me and Lo were having a bl _aaa_ st! That, _well_ , _before_ Marcus here showed up.” He adds simply, nicking the body in the leg with the tip of his expensive shoe like a curious child, “He was picking on Lo so I made him go ‘ _Bye-Bye’_.”

“She has a name and it’s ( _Name_ ), now come here.”

“Her name is _Lolita_ and we’re best pals!” His arm snakes around your waist and almost violently he pulls you to his chest, “ _Didn’t you know_ , Sherlock? We went on a coffee _date_! Sorry, I know this isn’t how you expected to find out you’re Lolita’s number 2, but _hey_ …” He smiles, “ _It was bound to come out eventually_.”

“Don’t. Touch. Her.”

Moriarty blinks, “Or what?” He gasps, “ _Or what,_ Sherlock? What will you do?” He whips his head to both sides before continuing, “Don’t tell me you will…” He points at the center of his chest, “ _Kill_ me?” He bursts out laughing. You flinch.

“( _Name_ ), come here.”

“Stop telling her what to do, she’s a grown woman and can think for herself.” Now he sounds annoyed. _“(Name) do this, (Name) do that…_ ” He glances at you, “How _do_ you stand him?” He suddenly snaps at Sherlock, “Ah-ah-ah, don’t you dare moving out of your spot, _doggy_. Unless you want someone else to die.”

“You _wouldn’t_ —“

“No, of course _not her_ , idiot.” Moriarty grumbles, “I mean one of the guests. Or that doctor friend of yours…What was his name? Baton? Waton?...Watson…? _Watson_! I tried once already, remember?” The melodious tone lowers, “ _Don’t_ make me try again.” And again, he smiles, “But alright, alright.” He tilts his head to you, leans in and his voice falls into a whisper, “On my mark you sprint as fast as you can into your beloved detectives arms or I _never_ let you go again.” His breath tickles the side of your cheek. There is a smirk pulling on the corner of his lips. He glances at Sherlock and his voice rings much louder, “Unless you don’t want to, that is.”

He gives no mark, no heads up, simply releases and pushes you forward and you stumble your way to Sherlock. It all feels like a dream, a dream coated in sticky cold sweat and red wine that goes in tune with Moriarty’s taunting voice. Before you fully realize where you are you are caught in an embrace. The coldness of the room numbs with warmth and you burry your head in Sherlock’s chest, your fingers clawing at his coat as a new wave of tears threatens to escape your tightly shut eyes.

“You have my number, Lolita.” Moriarty adds, “Don’t forget to call… _Oh_ , and sorry for getting you fired again.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: ...because good doesn't always win and good people don't always do good things. hello everyone! i am back with a REAL update this time! been working really hard on this chapter, i hope you like it!!! finally, we finish the mini arc :( i am both sad and happy in a way. no spoilers. i'm not about that life, but... sigh. there is plenty of foreshadowing in this chapter lololol  
> writing the interactions between sherlock and moriarty is so much fun!!!!!!!!!!! i hope they are in character!!!!!!!!! anyway, all for now...i think?? see you in the next update!  
> also, thank you are for the loving comments and kudos <3


	24. Court Me.

**APRIL FOOLS AHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA!**


	25. Mind palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: not an april fools joke!

“You are in too deep.” Sherlock’s smooth voice rings in your ear, in the silence of John’s old room; it bounces off the walls like a low hum that rumbles at the back of his throat. You lay on the bed – the sheets hug you and smell like your favourite flowers, making your heart beat slow into a rhythm that is not riddled with fear or panic – and feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into the mattress, as if it is swallowing you up. “I can’t have you do this. Not anymore.” His hand lands on yours, his skin rough against your knuckles, but warm, and he is calculatedly gentle with his caresses; he approaches you like a puzzle, like a puzzle scattered all over the floor, and tries to put you back together one little piece at a time. Human interaction is fairly new to him, after all. Of such meaningful touches he had only read in a book once or twice, and he never thought himself a man to even consider doing anything of the sort. But his hand still squeezes yours, and you feel the fog of sleep slowly dissipate. “(Name) (Lastname) you are… incredibly human, and…” You hear an ironic smile curl on his lips, “I believe you are making me human, too.”

But you feel too heavy to part your lips for even a breath of warm air. Your heart aches too painfully to reply to him, and once you finally do gather yourself you halt up in panic with your heart hammering in your chest. The room swims in morning light; a cold November day greets you behind the curtain. You look around. Whip the sweaty hair from your face but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. Did you dream it all, you wonder. Did your mind distort even more? Was that only a hallucination? You look at your hand, and blink a few times to let the haze of sleep fall from your eye, before you examine it carefully. No, it felt too real, you conduct - too real for it to be only a simple dream.

After a long hot shower you finally emerge into the kitchen, only to find Pirate rubbing at the furniture in desperate need of love. You smile tiredly at the cat before leaning in and scooping him into your arms. The flat is empty. No surprise here, Britain is always in need of assistance. As you turn on the kettle you shush at Pirate as he purrs in your embrace, his paws clawing at your sleeve gently and making you smile at him again. Perhaps it is good that they aren’t here. You have enough thoughts to fill the whole flat with their heaviness. You sit down and try to remember what had happened. Long and hard you stare into the very depths of the cabinets, spot a few dirty specs, even hear the kettle chime as it boils, but you don’t move. Pirate gradually escapes from you when he grows bored. You continue to think.

The night is fuzzy. All you really know is that Moriarty killed someone to save you.

But what you are completely sure of is how happy you are. How happy you are that he had saved you, how happy you are that you could help in whatever plan he was conducting, whatever scheme he involved you in just to mess with you, or perhaps because he genuinely started to care about you. You never really considered yourself an idiot, but the thoughts plaguing your mind, those that view the world through pretty rose shade glasses, propose ideas unheard of to the sane mind. And you insist on listening to them, insist on letting your heart sing, insist on grinning into your cup of coffee once you actually make it. It is hard to phantom that once upon a time you didn’t feel this way. That once upon a time you actually genuinely feared him.

In a way you still do. You are still cautious. But you don’t view him in the same theatrical light you used to, and he doesn’t view you in that way, either. How do you know this? You don’t. But you believe it. Isn’t that enough?

After a few hours of lazing around – finally, some peace of mind – the front door opens and bickering between John and Sherlock echo in the corridor as their footsteps rapidly approach the door. You are on your third tea cup. Pirate is nestled in your lap again. You flip the page of the book you had been reading for some time now, and don’t even lift your eyes up once the two enter through the door, disheveled and red cheeked from the harsh Autumn wind.

“(Name)…?” John is the first to address you. You turn to face him, give him a smile and he gives one right back, “Good to see you up! How are you feeling?”

“Better.” You nod, “Much better, thank you. And where have you lot been?”

“Sorting paperwork.” John answers, taking off his jacket, “Lestrade says hello. “

“He was awfully enthusiastic.” Sherlock mumbles, hanging his scarf and coat, “I believe he is expecting another coffee date.”

“Can’t say no to a free drink.” You say. Sherlock gives you a look.

“Your low standards never seize to amaze me.”

“Oi!”

John grins from ear to ear. He does not recall the last time you and Sherlock had gotten along so beautifully. Of course, some may argue that you two are a fight waiting to happen, but John would disagree. Seeing you smile again, so cheerfully, so lively, makes the whole day appear brighter and with perhaps a too jumpy step he takes a seat next to you as Sherlock wanders into the kitchen.

“It’s good.” John says as you close the book, “Seeing you happy again. Welcome back, (Name).”

Ironic. You couldn’t be more far gone.

**2:24pm.**

Three days, is the answer to your meek question.

“How long was I out for?”

“Three days.”

You don’t seem to like that statement.

But they need answers. Despite how worried they were, and still are, they must know about the problem before they can even begin to try and fix it. What happened that night is still a mystery. Some things simply don’t add up. Why were you away from the staff? Were you lured? Had you ventured alone, intending to play Moriarty’s twisted scheme, in hopes of saving your friends and possibly that lady Rita Adams that died in vain…? Sherlock has a lot of questions, plenty of which he knows you are unable to answer. He watches you over the rim of the porcelain cup as hot smoke tickles his eyelashes. The carefree smile on your face, the relaxed shoulders, soft tone you speak in…Whatever had happened must’ve been so much you can’t remember it. Why else would you be acting so freely?

He shares a look with John. He notices the slight furrow of his brows and instantly knows John doesn’t like Sherlock’s proposed idea, one he voiced early in the morning whilst you were in an active battle with sleep. Sherlock doesn’t bother taking a sip; quite frankly he wasn’t even thirsty to begin with. In an elegant, though rushed, motion he sets the tea cup down onto the floor and shifts in his favorite chair. The light chatter between you and John is cut short as John’s voice dies down in his throat. You glance from him to the doctor and back. A mixture of confusion sparks in your (colour) eye, yet you try to appear chipper.

“Am I…” You start, “Missing something?”

“Have you ever heard of a Mind Palace, (Name)?”  Sherlock asks quietly. You blink.

“I…think so?” Your brows knit together, “Why the sudden interest?”

John clears his throat, “You…don’t really remember what happened, do you?” Your expression hardens as you look down into the depths of your teacup.

“Only…bits and pieces.” You utter, managing to swallow down the lump in your throat, “Only enough to know that someone died.”

“Then you realize the only reason Lestrade or some other dimwit from Scotland Yard isn’t locking you into an interrogation room is because of John and I…And your involvement with Moriarty.” Sherlock says sternly.

“We need details, (Name).” John nudges softly, “You’ve been involved in…Quite a few attempted murders and now…Well, you know how this looks. We believe you,” His eyes jump to Sherlock before returning to you, “but the rest of the world needs to, too.”

There is a pause. Your lips open and shut and the cheerful glint in your eyes are snuffed out. The air feels stuffy and cold. Pirate, adventuring in the kitchen, meows somberly as he knocks something over.

“Tell me what to do.” You finally say.

**2:30 pm.**

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to, and quite rudely at that, explain the concept of a Mind Palace. The place of all your dreams, wishes, and most importantly, memories, are stored there in almost a mathematical order and created into a building you can wander in anytime you please. But to access the deep rooted things, the forbidden images and feelings, you need to go in further than a novice like you can. Sherlock seems to believe that you can easily access those needed files. John is a bit more doubtful. You, on the other hand, are unsure if you even want to know what really happened. You are content with knowing that Moriarty, even for a split second, felt something more for you rather than desire or hate.

Odd. Suddenly you feel rather…Odd. The light shifts strangely. The colors dilute and shine back up nearly blinding you and your heart hits your rib-cage, quickening with each beat. A slight…lag in your actions, the setting of the teacup – the ground appears a bit further away – and the siting comfortably makes your back sink into the couch.

Could this be because you’ve been asleep for so long? Have the side-effect finally caught up?

You close your eyes, as instructed, and a bit fearfully at that. Feel your palms clam up with sweat. The flat is eerily still. Not even the cat dares to interrupt the silence. Perhaps he had fallen asleep on the stove again…Ah! And there you go, being distracted when you should focus.

“Focus, (Name).”

Did Sherlock read your mind, you wonder.

“No, you just look like you’re daydreaming, now focus.”

You don’t like how you are so easy to read.

“Sherlock, this…Might not work.” John pipes up.

“What else do you suggest?”

You feel John shrug, “Taking her to a professional…?”

“Hush.”

The flat is quiet once again. John shifts beside you. Your ears strain to hear something – anything really – and catch onto faint footsteps that are eaten away by the carpet beneath them. You feel a presence; familiar warmth tickles across your skin before two hands engulf yours and squeeze reassuringly. You heart jumps. Your eyes twitch, begging to be opened and you even see specs of light creeping in through your closed lashes.

“Calm down.” Sherlock ushers, “Focus on my voice.” You take in a deep breath, “It is dark where you are. If you look close enough you might see a shape.” There is…something, something green? Or is it purple? “Imagine yourself taking a step towards it. One step.”  It is surprisingly easy to do. But his voice sounds far away...? ”Now another. When I count to three you should be able to reach it. I will let you go and you will enter.” Your body feels light and tingly, though if you tried to move your fingers you are unsure if you would be able to, “One…” You hear a whisper, “Two…” Another follows quick and, “Three.”

  
A breath escapes your lips and echoes in the silence, almost like a raspy gasp. Slowly you let your eyes open. It takes a moment to adjust – the interior is bright and blinding – but after a few owlish blinks you start seeing dull grey walls and tall pale windows with a stormy familiar blue sky hanging above. The smell hits you next. A stench of chemicals and medication and artificial food and in some cases…death. It sticks to your skin, stitches itself onto your clothes…Clothes…Carefully, still in a sort of buzzing haze, you glance down at the shirt and pants you explicitly recall wearing a moment ago but now…

A white hospital robe is loosely draped over your body and the cool air brushes past your thighs and wrists. You frown. A lump forms in your throat, one that is hard to swallow or breath fast, and the seemingly ungodly amount of clean oxygen provided by the looming forest just outside the window now is not enough to feed your needy lungs. Your wrist is taped with a name. A name in inky black letters that is sadly smudged and unreadable, as if someone poured a gallon of water on it before taping it onto you.

 _Am I…dreaming?_ You ask yourself, feeling oddly awake and aware of your surroundings. _No, wait…Is this?..._ You turn your back to the windows and take in the line of heavy doors, all closed, all numerated, all looking identical in this long, cool, but strangely homely hallway. You carefully trace the innocent number ‘68’ on the door directly in front of you. _My Mind Palace?_

Saint Jude’s Mental Hospital for the Clinically Insane. You and Piper used to come here quite frequently to visit her sister, and if you are correct – and you know you are – her room used to be 68, right across these tall open windows that provided too much sunlight or so her sister would always complain.

But, here? _Why here_? Wasn’t a Mind Palace supposed to be something comforting? St. Jude is the last thing you would put on your list of the ‘Most likely places for _Lolita_ to relax’. You shake your head. _Not_ Lolita. ( _Name_ ).

You have a sudden urge to open room 68. It is a rush, really, a harsh pull to it as if you are on a timer. But before your feet reach the door, before you dive head first in whatever your instincts tell you ae abruptly stopped by… Music. A faint melody, pleasant to the ear, enchanting almost, leaks out the cracks of the tightly shut door to your right. You blink. It registers. Isn’t it Tchaikovsky? _Swan Lake_? The ballet you had seen in sixth, _no_ , seventh grade? Your interest in Piper’s sister is all but forgotten as your bare feet leave imprints on clean dark tiles. You approach it cautiously, catching heavy footsteps coming from the room as the music gets louder. You crank the handle and the door creaks open and—

The _hotel_? Your hotel, _your first hotel_? Your first…you note pretty specs of red adore  the side of the disheveled sheets and your heart tumbles to the pit in your stomach as you are unable to move. With glass eyes you take in the awfully familiar and nearly sickening interior of the room. _Rooms_ you used to see on a daily basis as you brought rich folk their desserts and snacks and champagne when they felt fancy. But this…Is _Peter’s_ room, isn’t it? Was Sherlock right? Is… _is this your Mind Palace?_

You know full well what’s, or more likely, _who’s_ lying in that bed. You know that the closed door to the bathroom means the killer is waiting for you to leave. You know that now, if you really want to remember the exact image of how Peter looked when you stumbled upon his fresh corpse, you could do so with barely a few steps in. The smell is starting to reach you. Your nose scrunches as the metallic stench leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“ _Lo_!”

You go numb with fear. A sudden violent reaction shakes you out the dream like state and you yank the door shut and the music cuts out leaving a silent font that not even the harsh breaths you take can beak. The dust settles. Outside birds chirp happily, though it sounds more haunting than anything. Your head snaps to the end of the hallway. There is a terrible contrast between him and the hospital. The walls are grey and heavy. He is dark and smug and even more amused at your startled doll like expression. Bleak daylight streams from the windows. He casts a shadow that is abnormally large behind him, almost like he’s trying to swallow up everything around him. His stance, relaxed and a bit sloppy, makes you recognize him straight away.

“Wrong door!” He states chipper, his voice echoing and bouncing off the walls, distorting eerily as it reaches you.

You can barely form a sentence, “What? H-How—“

“How am I here? Why am I here?” Moriarty asks for you, “Lo, Lo…My precious naïve little Lo. I’m here because _you_ want me to be. I’m here because all you can really think about is…me.” He grins, “Looks like I got into your head.” His face crumbles and he wags his finger, “Naughty naughty. You really _are_ n’t as innocent as you look! The audacity! To find yourself dreaming and the first thing you, Lolita, the very first thing after checking up on old corpses is thinking of…me.” He pauses with a wistful smile, “I dream too, you know. It’s only human. I close _my_ eyes and I wish of a…Care to guess the answer?”

“…Normal life?”

“Do I look like a _puppet_ to you?” He almost sounds offended, “No, little Lo, see **I** dream of… _you_.” His tone falls flat, professional, “Lo, you’ve probably figured out by now that I **own** a lot of suits. Just like **you** own a lot of faces.” He shrugs, “I’m just trying to show the world who you really are. _Your full potential_. Because believe me, _lover_ ,” He takes a step closer,  “you have a lot of it.”

Greatly confused, you try to pry your gaze away from him, as if you could suddenly escape through one of the large windows, but you promptly look back, “Why here?“ You wonder aloud, “ _Why_ Saint Jude?”

“Because it’s been bothering you ever since you killed the inferior M.” He says casually, grinning at your paled expression, “ _Oh_ , don’t tell me you blocked the fun bits out _again_. Lo, we will have to do something about you not knowing how to have fun. _Prioritize_. Recall the highlights. It was a real show, you know, self-defense, but still…If it wasn’t him, it would’ve been birdy.” His eyes twinkle, “Get it? _Birdy_? She fell from the 16 th floor. There wasn’t much left to pick up.” He mumbles.

“I didn’t know that.” You state sharply.

“Yes you did.” He deadpans, “You heard _Detective Darling_ talking with _Token Best Friend_ whilst you were sleeping.” You stare at him. He sighs, “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Lolita?”

“…Figured out what?”

“That _here_?” He refers to the surroundings, “ _Here_ I am a projection of _who you want to be_. I know everything you know…And then some.”

Hollowly, your eyes wander back to the windows. You can’t say you are taken by surprise. It all falls into place accordingly, and it is more of an ‘ _Oh! I knew this_!’ sensation rather than a shocking one. Still, severely unpleasant. Your heart beats eerily slow in your chest. It’s cold. You feel that if you keep standing here, and he keeps his eyes pressed onto you, you will drown. The world will pile onto your shoulders and there is nothing you can do to escape it.

Finally, after all this time of playing mind games and you have blood on your hands, too.

“…Haunting, isn’t it?” Moriarty speaks up quietly, almost softly, as he too looks out the window almost mimicking your form entirely, “The sky.” He clarifies. “The same stormy blue of his eyes.”

“Shut up.” It falls from your lips before you can stop it and you shoot him a heated glare. He simply shrugs.

“I’m trying to help you, Lo.” He admits, “To help you embrace the _you_ that was hiding all this time behind such a pretty face. I will take personal credit for peeling that mask off.”

**Baker Street, 2:37pm.**

“ _Sherlock_ …” John is careful with his words, but the detective knows that Watson is currently trying to swallow his anger, “… _What_ did you give her?”

There is a pause.

“Psilocybin.”

“You gave her **_mushrooms_**?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: hello hello again! you have NO IDEA how long this chapter took me. how many different versions i have. how i kicked and screamed and lastly said SCREW IT LOLITA HAS BEEN GONE FOR LONG ENOUGH! so i bring you this. the next chapter will be more fun. no spoilers, but think we will witness the iconic moriarty with a crown moment B)
> 
> i just really want to thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos and reads! i am beyond happy that this story still gets so much traction, especially when the updates are so scarce...thank you from the bottom of my heart. love you all, and i hope to never disappoint you with my (questionable) storytelling <3


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